


Le Cygne Blanc

by coffinofachimera



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Harry, Chronic Illness, Fantasizing, Humor, Insecurity, Liam-centric, M/M, Psychology, Romance, Secrets, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-20 00:56:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4767545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffinofachimera/pseuds/coffinofachimera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Liam, a sensitive and impulsive child counselor, has finally resigned to the wishes of friends and family and is abandoning his failed ambitions regarding his career. But when he sparks an unexpected friendship with a ballet prodigy he was previously infatuated with, Liam finds himself reeled back into reckless decisions under the influence of a foolishly rendered fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am so happy to finally begin this story! I saw that people talked a lot about ballerina Harry, and it inspired me to write this. It's exciting posting my first story. I will be noting the adding of any new tags for the upcoming chapters.

"There's two hallways."

"Uh... should be a billboard. Go down the one with the billboard."

Liam's phone is sweaty and hard to hold, slipping around his ear. "There's literally two fucking billboards." He's frowning. Mad because he's lost. Mad about the damp, warm ear.

"Uh..." Niall is sounding distracted. His attention is split. "It's— _What? No, I picked it up._ " He whispers to a group of someones; girls. There's an echo that reminds Liam of his old high school's gymnasium and all the memories that go with it. Not good ones. The echo muddles the voices together through the phone, making that university chatter sound too comically transcendental for him to make out.

"Niall... Hello..."

" _Wait, he's talking to me_ — Okay, did you already pass the cafeteria?"

"Yeah."

"Okay it's down the.... the— _Clara, stop. I'm trying to talk_ —"

"The what?"

"The hallway."

"There's two!" Liam hisses too loud, only realizing when he catches a lengthy stare from a group of huddled students lounging by the entrance. Embarrassment slaps his frown away, leaving his deadpan face bright red.

Niall keeps talking into his ear. "Sorry! Sorry, sorry. I know there's two hallways I just— I can't hear you. Uh... you're close, don't worry."

"Okay." Liam doesn't mean to direct that to the group but he does. They're confused, now. Wondering why he's talking to them. And they're so attractive; dressed so chic. Nervous, Liam grins. One of the taller young men snorts. Not in a kind way, he realizes. They all turn back around giggling and murmuring on. And his stomach gives a kick.

Terrible. That was just terrible.

Niall says something Liam doesn't catch before going quiet. Liam plays it safe and assumes he's just been put on hold. He might risk being forgotten about completely if he hangs up, he debates. Turning away from the two hallways, Liam walks like he's got somewhere to go. Slow, careful strides so he doesn't get lost again, make a scene again.

And Liam swears he can still hear them laughing. _It wasn't that funny_ , he's rationalizing. _God, what fucking snobs_. Now embarrassment has mixed with a vintage kind of resentment. Liam has always been sensitive, but this feeling is nostalgic. Old thinking; pulling out a dusty book from the top of the bookshelf. He hasn't felt this kind of insecurity since he was in high school, scared the rain would poof up his straightened hair and the kids would call him Tracy Turnblad again—Crying when they did. But this is a university. What is he doing reliving grade 9 insecurity here?

London Conservatoire of Music and Dance; an elite music and dance university a few miles away from Liam's homely university— That seems to tower over him. But maybe only because Liam doesn't hold himself too tall. Or maybe it's them. Maybe they can tell Liam lives with his parents. Maybe wealth makes the people a classic kind of mean.

But just being inside the building intimidates. Big, wide-open and shiny with polished glass and white tiles everywhere. Liam would say it's likened to one of those IKEA modern bathroom displays if that wasn't so philistine of him. But he doesn't even mean it in a bad way. The whole place sparkles with the kind of cleanliness that makes you anxious you might be tracking dirt in. All the ceilings are tall, but in some places they reach for the sky in a dome just like in the museums. Liam is walking in one of those right now. No dinosaur bones there to keep the place interesting, just a small bench. Sitting in the very middle, it wastes all the space to say, _This is the £24,206 tuition. This is luxury_.

These hours, the whole building is empty and quiet. Band practice, dance rehearsals— soundproof rooms hush them. What whisper of music that makes it out into the halls is further muffled by the shouting instructors. A spooky atmosphere, maybe. Liam feels like he's trespassing a futuristic facility and an alarm will blare any moment. Another tacky simile, but regardless it's the same fear of being noticed, caught. Liam looks down. The bright tiles on the floor reflect his burly appearance back to him— unflatteringly so. He doesn't belong here.

Niall's girlfriend does. Jessica: the contemporary dancer Niall picks up from school every other day. Long, dry brown hair with a brassy ombre at the bottom and a slim, tall nose. She's a real looker. Built like a champion thoroughbred and worth just as much. She's becoming; sailing her talent down an ocean of opportunity that reaches out to her — The Atlantic, specifically. To a renowned theater in New York. One day. There's a lot for Niall to keep up with. It's not easy for an Irish young man to make his love for golf and FIFA sound cultured. And his guitar skills can only impress for so long. Jessica is becoming a higher and higher priority to him. That means Liam is falling behind.

Niall had been putting off helping him on a school project for almost a week. He would whip out the same excuses about being too busy with homework, or not having enough gas to drive to his place. Liam had been too trusting before to see if his story checked out. But a fateful bad mood from a poor night's sleep gave him enough rancor to give it a go. All he had to do was look at Jessica's twitter. That was this morning.

_@jess__bensxn: mum almost stopped me from going out with niall and the gals tonight long story short I am now buying food for two ugh_

And Liam texted Niall a screencap with no caption to go with it. You lied, I found out about it, the picture spoke on its own. Niall was so embarrassed. But he genuinely felt bad for Liam, too. He's not the type to lie like that and feel good about it. Liam's glad he pretended to be more hurt than he really was, though. In the end it got him an impressive apology—for a phone call— and an invitation to free dinner tonight.

" _Well, you know, we're gonna go out to an Italian restaraunt with some of her friends._ " Niall said. He'd already finished explaining himself, excusing himself, talking to Liam. This was the epilogue. " _I want you to come. Is that okay, bro? I'll pay for your food, that's on me_." 'Yeah, sure.' Liam said. " _It's a proper restaurant so, you know, dress yourself up a little nice. But right now I'm still with her in her school so... why don't you meet me up here? She won't be leaving for a while. She's got some... like, dance shit to do. I honestly don't know. You're not busy, are you?_ " 'No, not really.' Liam lied as he looked down at his school papers on the kitchen counter. " _We can just hang out and chill for a while. Then we go get dinner. Cool?_ " 'Yeah, cool. Sounds good, mate.'

It only sounded good in theory. When Niall said to meet him at the university, Liam thought he meant at the entrance. Don't make me come out, I can tell you through the phone. He didn't think he would have to find his way through the whole school by himself, with nothing to guide him but a half-invested Niall. He isn't usually awful at giving directions.

_Did I say the third door? I meant the fourth....Your right, not mine... Sorry! Sorry, sorry. It was mine..... Where are you?... I don't know. Describe it to me... Wait, I can't hear you... Stop, shut up. Someone's trying to talk to me.... Hold on.... Okay tell me where you are, again?... What?! I didn't tell you to go there!_

Clearly he is today.

"Hey, you there?" Niall's voice catches Liam by surprise.

"Yes."

"Okay. You know..." Niall chuckles. He sounds different. No echo. No sound of girls running around, either. "I had to walk all the way down to the water fountain. I left my bag and like, my phone was about to die on me."

Liam finds himself walking back towards the two hallways. The group of students that laughed at him are gone. Relieved, he whines freely. "Jesus Christ, Niall, just tell me where to _go_. I've been.... walking around all over the fucking building. People are such dickheads here. There were these people just laughing at me it was so fucking bizarre."

"Still at the two hallways?"

"Still at the two hallways! Do you even know where the dance studio is?"

"Yeees. Yes, I do. I'm going in right now. Listen, listen." A door slams. " _Heey! What's the craic?!_ " There's the echo again.

"What are you doing?"

"Can you hear the echo? Cool, innit?"

"My fucking feet hurt."

"Anyway, the girls are gone, if you can tell like, through the phone."

Liam closes his eyes and moans, "You're keeping my prisoner at this point, Niall."

And Niall cackles. "Sorry."

"You've gotten me lost like, twice." Suddenly, Liam realizes his phone is still very much wet, moreso than before. It must be the stress. He looks around, making sure no ones there to see him quickly bring down his phone to wipe off the sweat with his sleeve, leaving a stain he doesn't notice. He brings it back, noticing how hot it is as it presses onto his ear—Which is still sweaty.

"It's just that Jessica's friends were trying to untie my shoes and I was scared I'd trip 'cause you were distracti—"

" _I_ was distracting?"

"No, no, _they_ were distracting me. You can't distract me. I called you! But I need to ge—"

Liam has to take a break from listening. Looking at the two hallways is starting to drive him crazy. So is the sweaty ear. He wipes it dry with his sleeve, then wipes the phone again. _This is so funny_ , he thinks, angry enough for that to be funny too, _My ear is just so sweaty_. The janitor sees him but Liam won't know. Niall is still talking when he puts the phone back to his ear. "Put Jess on." He interrupts.

"What—No, no, I know where it is."

"No, Niall—"

"Two! Hallways! Yes?" He doesn't give Liam a chance to answer. "No, listen, I know this. I come here all the time. It's the left one. Take the left hallway, okay?"

And Liam walks so quickly into the hall he nearly trips. "God, why the _fuck_ were you having so much trouble saying that before?!"

Niall just laughs that hearty, belly laugh. But Liam is genuinely appalled, asking again seriously why he couldn't get him out of there as easily as he just did. Niall laughs nervously and decides to ignore him. "Listen, you keep going straight until uh... you're gonna get to some stairs. You go up and the dance studio's in the one with two doors. They've got windows like, you can see inside that it's a studio."

If Liam wasn't so desperate to get out of there as badly as he did, he'd get personal and tell Niall off. "Right, left. I mean, yes. _Left_. Yes, _left_. Left, right?"

"Yeah. At the end there's some stairs, so you got up and there's a bunch of rooms. The studio is the only one with two doors." He repeats.

"Yeah, okay." And Liam sighs. "You're a... fucking dick, man."

"Nooo."

"No, you can't do stuff like this to people."

Niall laughs it off.

"Swear to God, last time you're making me do something like this."

"Okay. Sorry. You reach the stairs yet?"

They're there at the end of the end of the long, spacious hallway. "I can see them. I'm halfway there."

"Okay. I'll see you when you get up here. Hanging up now. Bye."

"Bye."

When Liam brings his phone down to end the call, it warns him the battery is running low. After dismissing it, he catches the time. 5:23pm. He's been lost for almost half an hour. "Unbelievable." He huffs, and shoves his phone into his pocket.

His feet really do hurt bad. _Dress yourself up a little nice_ , Niall said. He would have regretted dressing nice at all had he not thought about what tragedy walking into a place like this in worn jeans, a Batman t-shirt and a bucket hat would've brought upon him. With the sleeves of his navy blue button-down rolled up his arms, dark wash jeans and oxford shoes, Liam reckons he's been spared of an awful thing or two from the people roaming the halls he's so embarrassingly been swimming in circles in. But maybe that's just him being dramatic. (That's just him being dramatic.)

Just as Liam is reaching to grab at the rails from the staircase, a guy comes speeding down the steps and runs straight into him. The impact bounces him right off, his duffel bag going flying as he stumbles away in three twirls before catching his balance. It makes them both laugh, the guy harder than he should. Liam hands him back his bag, and afterwards they both apologize and go their separate ways. Walking up the second flight of stairs, Liam spots a cellphone sitting on the third step: a gold iPhone 6.

Immediately he speeds down the staircase until he can spot the guy nearly out the hall. "Oi, mate!" Liam waits for him to turn around, but he doesn't. In a panic, he quickly runs back up to get the phone, coming back down with it in a tight grip. Evidently, it wasn't. And the phone slips, right from the tip of his fingers, and soars gracefully through the air. It's heartbreaking watching it bounce off each step before crashing to the ground and sliding across the floor on its screen. "Shit!" Liam hisses coming down the stairs, realizing the young man is no longer in view once he reaches the bottom. "Wait! Wait!"

Crouching down, he picks up the phone off the floor. It's broken, screen completely shattered.

"Hello?!"

 _No..._ Liam looks up.

"Were you calling me?!"

The guy heard his call. How regrettable. "T-This your phone, mate?! You dropped it!"

The guy gestures that he can't understand what Liam is saying and begins to walk forward. Liam decides to meet him halfway and starts running, oxford shoes squeaking down the hall. They don't meet halfway at all, though. On account of the guy stopping to let Liam come to him, instead.

"I, uh, I found this...was— this was on the stairs." Liam pants, holding out the cracked phone.

The guy's face sinks before Liam can ask if it's his. "Yeah." He sighs, as if he knew Liam would ask. He looks upset as he takes his phone in his hand.

"Yours?"

"Yeah, it is. Fuck..." The young man curses as he runs his fingers over the screen, so shattered it's made the screen nearly white; can't reflect a thing, anymore. "Must've fallen when I bumped into you."

" _Yeah_." Liam nods. He watches the guy's face carefully for any sign of suspicion or doubt. "Yeah. I definitely think that's what it was, too."  
There isn't any. But in his observance, Liam can see the the guy is a dancer. A loose white henley and dark grey sweatpants. He won't be playing a violin in those. _He could, though_ , Liam reasons. But the duffel bag gives it away. Dancers always carry duffel bags.

"The screen is so fucked up." Then the guy looks up at Liam and chortles. "The one day I took the case off."

"Oh, that sucks."

But Liam doesn't feel bad about the phone, if he's honest. And he has to be honest. Of course, to no one but himself, he thinks. That's where it's most important. And Liam has always found comfort in being completely honest with himself. But he finds more comfort in the young man than his own honesty, in this moment. He shows a handsome kind of dejection, like a tragic painting blended with complementary colors. It makes for a pleasant atmosphere. Whatever all that might mean to Liam. Is that cynical?, he wonders. _Must be_.

"I didn't know if it was yours." Liam starts. "And I was gonna say I was glad it was yours, because if it wasn't then I would've run all this way for nothing but... you know, probably not the best thing to say, now." He laughs.

"No, I appreciate it. I can take out all my stuff now." He looks down and presses the unlock button on the side. "At least it turns on. It's all good, man." And he starts taking a few steps back. He's in a hurry. "Thanks."

"Okay." Foolishly, Liam raises his hand to gesture a goodbye at the young man walking away. Part of him wishes the encounter were more fateful, or at least a bit more exciting for all his effort. He frowns at himself as he lowers his arm, turning around to be back on his way.

And suddenly, it feels like a very long way. He can thank his brilliant idea of running down the lengthy hall to return a cellphone, because it's an ache in his legs that makes the walk so suddenly exhausting. Liam doesn't admit it right away, under the false belief he's in excellent shape as he keeps his pace quick, even when he's climbing his way up the staircase. But by the second flight of stairs the reality dawns upon him in the burn in his thighs and the sweat in his pits. You can't say Liam is walking anymore— crawling, moreso. _This isn't worth a free seafood dinner_ , he thinks, feeling his face burning red, _None of it._

When Liam is finally over with all the stairs, he's grateful to find that there's a water fountain waiting for him in the hallway. The same fountain Niall had to walk "all the way down to" to get his phone charger? Caught in the lie, then. But Liam is delighted to have been lied to. He hopes to use it to his advantage again, albeit in a more spiteful way this time. After drinking some water, he walks down the hall with observant eyes in search for the room with two doors. And there it is. Two doors, small windows on each one. Liam couldn't have pushed through them any faster.

Finally.

"Oh for Christ's sake..."

But there's no one in the studio.

"Niall?" Liam calls out tentatively, voice echoing as he glances around the studio. It's bigger than he thought— nearly twice— but as beautiful as he expected. A row of big windows let refreshing light in; the sun a long way from setting. Polished wood sparkles under Liam's shoes, and a big mirror wall to his left reflects him as he walks beside it. Quickly, he checks his appearance. He gives his shirt a few adjusting tugs, but beyond that he's flawless, he admits to himself. And a little sweaty— He just wipes that away. Liam scans the room again through the mirror's reflection. "Niall? Jessica?" He turns around, looking at a door down the end of the studio. But he's too afraid to give it a look.

It's remarkable how the day continues to get more difficult. Nearly in a rage, Liam pulls his phone out of his pocket to call Niall again. As it rings in one ear, he keeps the other open to any sounds of another phone ringing in the studio. Nothing. Where is Niall? Is this the wrong studio? It must have been the wrong hallway. And Liam promises he's leaving and going home after this. He's tired, frustrated— sweaty. And he thinks he's losing his appetite, even on an empty stomach.

"Hey." Niall answers through the phone.

"Where the fuck are you?" Liam's voice is as furious it can be at such low volume, conscious about the echo.

"Did you make it to the studio? Cos we're not there!"  
  
" _Why?_ "

"I know, unbelievable." Niall sympathizes with Liam's outrage. "Jessica got hungry waiting on you."

"What the fuck, you went to the restaurant without me?!" Liam hisses.

"Why are you whispering? Anyway, no!" Niall laughs. "No, no, I promise. We're at the cafeteria. It's just a snack. I wanted to wait on you there but she made me go with her." He pauses. "Jesus, today is just not working out for us, is it?"

" _Us_? Oh what the fuck hasn't worked out for you? Jessica's friends trying to untie your shoes?" Turning around, Liam walks to a row of chairs lined against the wall by entrance. "How long before you get back?"

"Just a couple of minutes. And then we'll leave to go eat. _Finally_ , right?! You must be really hungry."

Liam takes a seat on the comfiest looking chair in the row right in the middle. One of them had something sitting in the seat; he doesn't get a good look. The front doors are a couple of yards away to his right. He'll wait for Niall and Jessica here, he decides. "I swear to God I'm like, not even hungry anymore."

"Don't worry, I'll uh... I'll do something make it up to you. Just sit tight. You know, sorry for everything. Would've never happened if I hadn't lied in the first place."

Liam sighs. He doesn't need someone getting dramatic with him. "No... it's cool. I'm just tired from walking so much, really." Liam can be dramatic enough on his own, he'll admit that. All he's done is walk around lost in a university and go up a lot of stairs. There's no real reason why his heart should be beating the way it is. Liam slouches in the chair to try and get a bit more comfortable, and he takes a big sigh. "Just hurry up. I-I'm getting quite sweaty as well..." Thankfully the studio feels chillier than the rest of the school. Liam's confident it'll dry up the sweat.

"You better not stink when I get there."

"I'm afraid I can't make any promises." He snorts. "Bye."

"Okay. Bye."

Liam hangs up and tucks his phone back into his pocket. Taking advantage of the deserted studio, he lets out a weak, frustrated cry. It echoes surprisingly loud, splashing Liam with worry that someone outside in the hall will hear, somehow. And then he worries about what would happen if a student or a professor were to come in and see him sitting there. Could he lie and say he was a student himself? He doesn't think he could get away with any kind of lie in this place. A horrible liar in the face of insecurity, he is. Liam trusts that the truth will suffice: He's just waiting for a friend, is all. And he trusts that Niall will hold true to his word and return quickly. Chances of a confrontation with anyone are slim.

And then the front doors swing open next to him.

Liam draws in a sharp breath as he lowers his head, fidgeting to yank out his phone and begin tapping the screen to seem busy. Soft footsteps echo through the studio as someone walks by. Liam hears a jingle of keys and glances up, able to catch a glimpse of someone entering the room down the other end studio. It wasn't a professor, Liam judges by what seemed like dancing clothes and a youthful figure. Of course, that doesn't really say it couldn't be a professor. He just prays that whoever it is doesn't get confrontational; worst case scenario being that he isn't allowed in the studio, or the school at all. The door opens again and slams shut. Liam hears something dropping like a bag, then footsteps again— but he can't make out where they're going. He keeps his head down, eyes locked on his phone's screen as he decides he'll wait some time before turning his head up.

Lowkey; hopefully his presence is so small he'll be easy to ignore. But he doubts he really can be. He's wearing such dark washes in the glowy bright dance studio, and he took a seat in the very middle of the row. Liam would notice himself if he was the other person, he admits. What does the other person even look like? He messes around on Facebook to resist curiosity, despite service in the building being too bad for anything to load at decent speed. He messages three of his friends online with, " _hey :D. im bored_ ", and waits for an answer.

The studio echoes with interesting sounds. Light and heavy tapping; creaking like fabric being rubbed and stretched— but most of all, something heavy sliding on the floor, again and again. _What the fuck is sliding around like that? Are they rolling around the floor?_ , Liam wonders. It suddenly feels very important and crucial to avoid looking at the person in the room, as if something is sure to happen if he does. Liam refreshes Facebook, fighting the urge to look up. But he can't, and sneaks a quick peak.

In nearly record-breaking speed, Liam manages to not only disappoint his curiosity, but destroy it like water to a flame when he looks up at the perfect moment to come face to face with the person in the room. Sweatpants, long hair and a pale complexion is all he can notice, the person too far away for Liam to make out a face. A female dancer; the only thing he can say with confidence now. The information wasn't worth blowing his cover, sending his heart into a panic. Liam lowers his head back to Facebook, annoyed by his anxiety. He's never this terrified of eye contact— ever. But today is bringing out the worst in him; retrograding into someone he'd left behind years ago. He can't even remember when the last time he was so afraid of being noticed was. It's not making sense to him how it's even happening. At this where and when.

The three people Liam messaged have all gone offline. Only his mother is online, now. He closes Facebook before she can message him, imagining this was the case with all his friends who went offline. It frustrates him more, threatening to make him sweaty again. Liam shoots Niall an all-caps text demanding his location before setting the phone down on his lap. The chair isn't as comfortable as he had anticipated, he realizes. He bounces his knee, imagining the girl in the room has been generously watching whatever embarrassing behavior he's displayed— still displaying. He can feel it; the fidgeting, the weird faces.

And then, Liam is startled by the sound of his ringtone blasting into the studio at full volume. He curses himself for not putting it on vibrate. The studio amplifies it, making the ringtone sound louder than Liam remembers ever keeping it. He looks up on again on accident to see that the girl is coming his way. He whines quietly in his throat, leaving sweaty fingerprints on the screen of his phone as he tries to press the unlock button to answer the—

 _Wait_ , Liam thinks, looking down at the black screen of his phone. _You don't unlock your phone to answer a call._

"Ow!"

Liam turns to see a young man standing beside him, one chair over. So then it was a guy, not a girl dancing in the studio. He sucks on the pad of his thumb like it's bleeding, pulling it away to check for blood before bringing it to his lips again. The ringtone keeps blaring, and Liam looks down at his other hand where he holds his phone; a gold iPhone 6 with a shattered screen, plugged into the outlet on the wall behind the chair.

Liam's eyebrows jump up, the corner of his mouth curving slightly to smile in surprise. It's the dancer who's phone he broke in the hallway. So he has long hair; Liam didn't notice before. It looked short somehow, probably tied back. Liam waits for the guy to greet him, but he hasn't noticed him yet. Liam turns his head to look at the studio he'd been averting his eyes from, and he notices the guy's duffel bag on the floor next to the mirrors. It really sinks in that they've bumped into each other again. _Would you look at that. What are the odds!_ Liam is just so fond of funny, fateful encounters. And they even have the same ringtone. He thinks back to how he'd wanted their meeting a bit more interesting. Well, it certainly is now. And Liam can't keep himself from taking the initiative and greeting the guy. At least just so he can notice him. He hopes he'll find the humor in their meeting again, too.

"Hey." Liam says quietly.

The guy turns his head, thumb still in his mouth. He doesn't seem to recognize Liam, and stays quiet.

"I-I was..."

And then the guy's eyes widen. He pulls his hand away from his mouth to point his index finger at Liam, a smile creeping on his face. "You."

"Yes!"

"You broke my phone."

"What?" Liam's face drops, stomach going with it. He knew the whole time he'd dropped it? "N-No I... I didn't... I tried to get it I didn't mean t— "

"Oh, no, no. You're right, sorry. It fell, you brought it back." He laughs, shaking his head. "I got confused."

Liam lets out a nervous laugh, too loud. "Yeah! God, I was gonna say, like... I hope he doesn't... sue me." _Sue him? Why the fuck did I say that?_  Suddenly, Liam worries if he's introduced himself to another snob, and he'll face another crippling embarrassment.

But the guy seems easygoing, thumb in his mouth as he chuckles to keep the conversation from getting awkward. He pulls his thumb back again and takes another look. "Cut my thumb." He tells Liam, showing him his thumb before stepping closer to him, showing him his phone so he can see the blood running through the cracks. "When I tried to answer my phone, my thumb just went... straight across the glass."

Liam grimaces. "Ow."

"No, it's not so bad. I'm alright. I guess I just can't answer anyone. Um..." He places his phone back on the chair and stands back, running his fingers through his hair to push it back. It's curly, resting a couple of inches down his shoulders. "What are you doing here?" He asks. "...Did you want something?"

He's implying Liam wanted something from _him_ , as in he purposefully searched to find him here. "Oh! Nooo, I'm just waiting for my friend. Not following you or anything. Swear." Liam laughs, putting a hand to his chest, raising the other.

"Because I was thinking 'Hm... funny seeing him here again.'..."

Liam is a bit mortified. He'd hoped the guy found it fateful, not that he was stalking him. He wonders if he's done something to make him seem the type. The idea bothering him, Liam attempts to give his story more credibility and says, "No, I'm just waiting for my friend and his girlfriend, they wanted me to meet them here. His girlfriend, she's a contemporary dancer at this university. Her name's Jessica. Do you know her?"

"No, I don't go here. Sorry. I'm just borrowing the studio." Slowly walking backwards, he quickly interjects so as to wrap the conversation up, "You sure you don't need anything?"

"I'm good. Carry on with your dancing, mate." Liam smiles. "Don't mind me."

"Alright. I'm gonna be practicing over there. Um..." He stops walking. "My name is Harry, if you need anything."

"Okay."

He's off again; Harry. Liam doesn't get a chance to tell him his own name. He walks away towards the middle of the studio. Liam finds that he's always disappointed at how short conversations between them keep being left. Like fate keeps bringing them together, but nothing is happening. Fate; what exactly does Liam think it's holding for them? He finds the answer in his head. Embarrassed, he stops thinking about it, hoping to not let himself bring it up again.

Harry is sitting on his haunches right in front of the mirror. He rests his left arm on his thigh, and with his right hand he grabs onto the bar on the wall in front of him to keep steady. He balances on one leg— left— as the other leg— right— is outstretched beside him in a half-split. And slowly Harry drops his weight down, keeping the leg perfectly straight as it presses down against the floor. Then he tucks it back in, switching to repeat the same exercise with the other leg. Liam can imagine how much it would hurt if he tried to do the same.

He doesn't let himself watch too attentively, not wanting Harry to think he's interested in him in some way; still insecure about seeming like a stalker. But he lets himself notice small things. Or better said, big things; general things. Harry's hair is more wavy than curly. But he does have a bouquet of tight curls at the bottom. And he has tattoos, one of which seems like a mermaid on his forearm.

Harry gets up on his feet, facing the mirror. And he glances at Liam before dropping his sweatpants. Liam doesn't want to make a scene so he keeps his head still and instead blinks his gaze away, looking to the window as he scrambles inside himself to suppress a shocked reaction. He really dropped his pants like that, and Liam can't imagine why. But if he doesn't look back he knows it will seem suspicious. So he blinks back, unintentionally bringing up his hand to bite his nails. Harry has lifted his leg up onto the bar in front of him, propped firmly straight. Liam notices it's not underwear he's stripped down to— It's pair of tiny black shorts; spandex. Effortlessly, Harry folds himself forward to rest completely over his leg, twisting his foot to manually lock his ankle on the bar. He stays there, body bent like closed book. It feels like a humiliating slap to the pride he holds for being able to place his palms flat on his feet while standing with his legs straight. Harry repeats the same exercise with his other leg before going back to the other one for a different exercise.

Turning his body, his back now turned to Liam, he lifts his leg to lock his ankle on the bar again. No longer facing the mirror this time, his leg extends out from his side. Harry brings one arm up, curved inward, before slowly bending himself over his leg sideways. And suddenly Liam realizes, _Oh, he's a ballerina_ , recognizing the almost iconic pose. It impresses him more; makes him curious, interested. Liam has always wondered of the lives of male ballet dancers. The room is so quiet; tranquil. It almost relaxes him to watch someone stretch and twist so gracefully like that. He notices Harry's feet are tucked inside white ballet slippers, surprised to see they're not much different from girls' slippers. He notices his ass, too. The shorts are wedging tightly up his crack. Liam lets himself look so long as Harry can't see him, but his own better judgement prompts him to look away. Again, Harry repeats the same exercise with the other leg. Facing Liam now, he continues to stretch his body in preparation for his dance. Liam can really see his face, now.

The very nature of ballet is elegance, and Liam doesn't know if that's what's making Harry look so pretty to him. But he looks fairytale princely in his own right; long curly brown hair, pale skin and the light colored eyes with pinkish lips and flushed cheeks that make for dollish features. Ballet should make him an unstoppable force of European-idealed beauty. Old, white women must just adore him. He's just falling for it, too, Liam thinks. An engraved, uninspired allure. It doesn't mean anything. Harry notices that Liam is staring at him, and bent over with his curly hair draped over his cheek, he shoots him a sensational smile. Dimples, and buck front teeth. Liam's smile back is clumsy and delayed, and it makes Harry laugh.

A few more exercises later and he's done with stretching, now rummaging through his duffel bag for something. Harry stands up, holding something in his hand as he walks away backwards facing Liam. "Time for some dancing." He whispers, thinking himself silly for it as he laughs, looking excited and eager. Liam smiles, excited, too; feeling involved, somehow. Harry walks past the door on the other side of the studio, leading into a room. The lights come on, filling the room with light. Liam hadn't realized how dark it had already gotten outside.

And then music begins to play. Symphony; classical, fast and dramatic. Harry comes out of the room, drinking from a bottle of water as he leisurely makes his way back to his bag . Pausing between a few more sips, he places the bottle on the floor and steps back into the middle of the studio as he faces his reflection. Another glance over at Liam, as if he wants him to watch him dance. It's a stretch, but Liam entertains the idea anyway. Harry suddenly assumes some kind of stance as the music continues to play. Right leg firmly planted on the ground; left leg extended back, tip of his toes on the ground. Right arm bent in front of him; left arm extended back, angled down. Solid and toned like a posing statue, he looks as if he'll take flight, waiting for the perfect moment.

And then it comes. And he soars.

One big spin comes first, and then Harry skips to leap through the air, landing far away to continue the same set of moves all over again. With a classical kind of masculinity to match the music, he dances, skips and spins; moving perfectly along to the music. Sprinting across the floor with his legs completely straight, hair bouncing up and down. Liam watches his facial expressions; colorful and emphatic as if he were part of a story. A character— A prince, Liam guesses lazily, too attentive to the way Harry's body moves. And every move is at a perfect, precise angle. The straightest lines, the smoothest curves. He dances quick-paced, Harry makes sure no part of the studio goes to waste as he sprints and hops through every corner of the room.

Liam is in awe. _A real life ballerina_ , he thinks childishly, as if ballet dancers were made of magic and only existed in fairytales. At the mention of ballet, a twirling ballerina in a music box and the Nutcracker Prince comes to his mind. Harry's body toned and solid, but he flies through the air as if he were made of it, part of it. Transformed; less human, like he's from a fantasy world. Liam feels so simple-minded.

The music begins to slow down. Harry is acting, now, more than really dancing. He moves his eyes as if there were someone dancing around him. He reaches for them, chasing them. Someone is meant to be dancing with him, and yet he carries the choreography with graceful accuracy. As if he danced with an invisible person, not by himself. Harry steps back, watching his partner take center stage. Liam can tell where they are by looking at Harry's eyes. They dart up and down as if he were admiring the other dancer, smiling at them in awe— much like Liam is.

But as the music begins to pick up again, the focus of the performance goes back to Harry. Stunningly spinning on one leg again and again, arms folded perfectly. Every twirl goes in sync with the music as his hair floats in the air. By the umpteenth time Liam can't hold back from laughing in astounded delight at how Harry isn't getting dizzy. Instead, he continues on to skip gracefully across the room, hair falling over and then out of his face time and time again. Harry smiles, not in character. He knows Liam watches him with amazement sprawled bluntly across his face. It flatters him, threatening to throw him off as he loses focus.

Liam has never seen a ballet dancer up close like this, if he's ever really seen one perform at all. All he can think of is how beautiful Harry dances, how perfectly he takes every step to the beat of the symphony.

Suddenly, Harry's phone starts to ring again. It startles him, spoiling his routine as he loses his balance with a disappointed wince. As he runs into the back room to turn off the music, Liam takes a peek at the screen to see if he can make out the name of the person calling, but the cracks block it out. The studio goes quiet again. With the phone ringing and thumping footsteps echoing in the room, the magic has crudely perished.

Tragedy strikes when Harry quickly picks up his phone and swipes his injured thumb over the screen again, having forgotten about the sharp glass. "Fuck!" He shouts, bringing his bleeding thumb to his mouth again. Liam should've warned him; he was thinking about it. Harry growls, wrapping his index finger around the hem of his shirt for protection before swiping it over the screen to answer the call. It doesn't work the first time, so he tries a few more. Harry's shirt rides up, allowing Liam to catch a glimpse of his bare skin from the belly down and notice three more tattoos. Two scrolls, maybe, on his hips, and another big tattoo above his bellybutton. But Harry's white henley falls down over his skin before Liam can make that out.

"Hello?....." Harry answers angrily, brow furrowed tightly as he sucks his thumb in his mouth. "Hi mum..... No, I'm alright. It's just—..... Yeah. But I'm not angry you interrupted or anything....."

Liam thinks to himself that might be a lie. He listens closely, being a snoop.

"You wouldn't believe it. My phone is absolutely trashed. It fell today and the screen is like, destroyed..... Like, shattered..... Listen, when I answered your call I slid my thumb on the screen and it was like a knife, it sliced it open..... It's nothing serious, mum..... No!" He laughs. "Just hurts really bad..... Not too much. It stops bleeding after I lick it for a while..... How are you?....."

Harry pulls his thumb out of his mouth to inspect the bleeding before going off walking; a funny gait from the ballet shoes. He doesn't walk away far, sort of hovering close to Liam as he talks to his mother.

"What?..... No, I don't— ..... I think that's too soon..... Did she say I had to be ready by then? Like, the dance?..... It is, but..... What else did she say?..... I don't know.... I think it's coming along good. But I thought I had more time......I'm not worried about my size, mum..... It is good news, I know..... Uhhm.... Probably around ten. It's already six o'clock. I don't think I'll stay too long today..... I don't know..... Yeah, okay..... I promise, I'm fine....." Harry is already back to the chair, standing beside Liam. "..... I love you to..... Bye." He lowers his phone, finger nearly meeting the screen to press end before he pulls it back with a yelp.

And Liam chuckles. "Not this time, right?"

"God, that was close!" Harry laughs, giving his index finger a kiss before plugging his phone back in and setting it on the chair.

"How's your thumb?"

"I'll live." He gives it a glance. "It's stopped bleeding. Fucking hurts, though."

Liam hums. "So... good news?"

"What?'

"On the phone."

Harry doesn't say anything and Liam panics.

"I'm sorry, you don't have to answer that." He laughs, shaking his head. "I was just—"

"Oh, no. It's alright. It was um... so-and-so news." Harry takes a seat next to Liam, flipping his hair back to comb through it with his fingers. "I have a costume fitting coming up in a few months for... a part I don't currently play in a performance."

Liam blinks, trying to figure out for himself what that means. Still confused, he picks his words carefully and asks, "What does that mean?"

"It's a bit complicated." Harry warns him.

Maybe Liam shouldn't have asked. "That's alright." He says anyway.

"Okay. So I have a part in this performance we've been rehearsing for; we're in a ballet company. I have this very minor part. I'm like, a background dancer, essentially. And I rehearse that part with the rest of the dancers at our theater every day. Originally, I was principal dancer and so I had the main part in every performance. But since I kind of fucked up I basically got downgraded to a minor part."

Harry talks ridiculously slow in a thick, Northern accent. Liam's eyebrows are knitted together, struggling to understand him at all between what he's saying and the way he says it.

"And so I got sort of like, an ultimatum. If I could learn on my own the dance for the main part, outside of the company theater, then... I could become principal dancer again and dance the main part." Harry pauses to check if Liam is following.

And he has a small understanding of what he says. "So the big part, that's the part you're rehearsing today?"

"Right!" Harry smiles. "From 12am to 3pm, I'm dancing at my ballet for my official small part. From 5pm to 10pm, I'm rehearsing for the main part, which I hope to win back."

"Oh, I get it! I get it." It isn't so complicated.

"Yeah. But anyway, what all that nonsense has to do with your original question about the phone call..." He laughs at himself before continuing, "is that I now have an actual deadline, that's gonna tell me if I got the part or not. So it's good news, but I'm still dreading it. There. Longest bloody answer to someone asking if something is good news or bad news."

"No, you're just giving me the ballet basics. You know, I asked a ballet question so... I just learned a thing or two about ballet that I did not know before, actually." Liam discourages Harry's apologetic tone, happy to see it working in the smile on his face. "Ballet is sick. Your dancing is proper fucking sick, man."

"Thank you." He laughs.

Liam thinks of something to say, realizing how much effort he's putting into keeping a conversation going. Only because Harry doesn't seem to be annoyed by him. "How long have you been dancing?"

"Six." He says, crossing his legs as he reclines a little in the chair. He sighs; tired.

"Six years?"

"No. Since I was six years old."

"Oh my God." Liam imagines a tiny toddler doing the same spins and splits he watched Harry perform.

"Ballet dancers have to start very young because like, to be as flexible as you need to be in ballet is impossible if you haven't been stretching and training your body since you were a child."

"That's crazy."

"Yeah."

"So do you like, do a lot of shows?" A stupid question. "I don't know, I don't know anything about ballet." Liam laughs as he looks away.

"Yeah we do a _lot_ of shows. They're minor, usually. But sometimes we get to travel or tour for really big performances. I've been to Russia, Japan and France before."

"That's so cool! I didn't ballet dancers tour and travel the world and stuff."

"We have a huge show coming up in the winter. We've been rehearsing since last year."

"What's it called?"

"Swan Lake." Harry grins, excited to say it. "It's really cool."

Liam's eyes go wide. "Oh! Oh that's the... from the film Black Swan! That was the performance, right? She was the swan."

"Yeah, from Black Swan! It's a pretty big deal for me. It's my absolute favorite ballet. Out of any. It's amazing to be in it."

"When is it?"

"The date?"

"Yeah."

"It's not set, yet. But the show runs for a few months, so it's not just one show.

"Oh." Didn't know that either. Of course.

"But I think it'll be from February to about April. It should be running for some time. So you have time to see it if you want."

"Yeah, that's what I was thinking. It'd be cool to check out."

Harry doesn't say anything, and Liam turns his head to look at him. He's leaned over to the other chair doing something with his phone. Liam considers warning Harry again about the glass, but instead sneaks a glance at his thighs. Something he didn't notice before: a giant tiger's head tattooed on his left thigh in rich, black ink. He really has a lot of tattoos for a ballet dancer, and Liam finds that he likes how unique that is. Harry's thighs are pale, shapely and strong— but not very muscular. Soft, almost delicate looking. The shorts have ridden up so high, Liam thinks he's seeing too much and shamefully turns away. Just in time for Harry to turn back around and miss knowing he was ever staring in the first place.

"I was just— I was going to check, but my phone's fucked." He laughs. "But I think I could get you some free tickets, if you'd like some. By the time the show starts playing. You could attend the premiere."

Liam's eyebrows jump. "Really?! Are you sure you can, like... You can do that?"

He smiles. "Yeah. We can always get some free tickets. Shall I get you some, then?"

"If it's no trouble."

"No trouble! As long as I'm not like, forcing you to go."

"No, I'd love to. I've never been to a ballet ever before in my life. And the routine looked really cool, the one you were doing. What role do you have?"

Harry blinks down at the floor, "Um well.... Like I said, right now I have a minor part but—"

"Right! Sorry, you told me."

"— if everything goes well then I get the main part again which is the prince."

Now Liam understands that Harry would be upset; downgraded to a lesser role in his favorite ballet. He wonders how that came to be. Liam can tell by the way Harry's face seems to tense that it bothers him, and he makes a note not to be bring it up again. Talking to Harry is easy; Liam finds himself worrying less and less about what to say. "That was you dancing as the prince earlier?"

"Yeah."

"You've not got anything worry about, then. I mean I know absolutely _nothing_ about ballet, but you were brilliant. I've never seen anyone dance like that. Not just ballet, you know, I've never seen anyone _dance_ like that, period! You're seriously talented. I think you'll get to be the prince."

Harry laughs, face turning red in flattery. "God, don't disillusion me like that. It's bad for my technique."

"That's rubbish."

"I'm curious, what do you do?" Harry asks. "Like, uni or work. You said you didn't go here."

At the sudden change in the direction of their conversation, Liam has to pause to erase all the questions he had about Swan Lake and Harry's performance. Maybe he'll get a chance to bring them up some other time.

"Oh, if it's alright for me to ask." Harry says.

"It's fine! Um... Yeah, I go to uni a few miles away." Liam hopes he won't ask where.

"What's your major?"

"Counseling psychology."

"Ooo. I've never heard of that. What is it?"

"It's psychology, obviously, but it focuses more on advice regarding like, academics, workplaces and social situations. It doesn't deal with treating serious mental illnesses, you know, like say schizophrenia or bipolar disorder, for example. You know, a counselor, more like."

Harry furrows his brow and says sincerely, "That sounds very nice. I like that."

Liam smiles, surprised. Most people consider it a watered down mediocrity. It sparks in them memories of primary school counselors that made them and their bully make up in an office before going back to class. Sometimes Liam thinks of his career path as a middling mistake, until he remembers why he chose it to begin with. "I used to be bullied a lot in middle school and high school. And we had counselors but, you know, they never really cared and so I felt quite alone and like no one could help me. It made me want to like, be that counselor that I wish was there for me, you know?" He can see that little boy he used to be, with the skinny arms and the bad hair that never looked good even for special occasions. He's come a long way, but sometimes he feels like he's fallen back. And Liam just can't let himself be that little boy that cried and complained and worried all the time. Even if it's a moment of weakness, he wants it left behind forever. "I think I could help kids that went through that. Because I'd understand."

"That sounds amazing, honestly. It just sounds like such a great thing to want to do."

Liam's turn to feel flattered. He never noticed it before, but Harry's eyes are green. Bright emerald. There's something enchanting about them, as if there's light coming from behind them.

"I was bullied a lot in school, as well. Not easy for a little boy who liked ballet. The boys were especially nasty, as you can imagine." Harry says, running his hand through his hair. "I honestly had no friends outside of ballet school. But I was busy, as well. After regular school, I would go to ballet school. And so my day was usually over at 9pm. I would wake up early to do my assignments and study for exams. That's how my entire high school life went." He pauses, giving Liam a jokeful smile that keeps abjection behind it. "Still goes, kind of. I still have no friends outside of ballet."

There's a moment of silence, as if they both know what could be said about that. Neither want to say it. Liam turns his head to look mindlessly around at the studio. He composes himself, letting himself think deeply for just a moment before turning his head to look Harry in the eye. "Don't worry. You're a nice guy. You'll get friends." He says quietly.

Liam can't read anything on Harry's face, other than the fact that he really is pretty, especially when he smiles the way he is in that moment. Fear keeps Liam from letting himself notice anything deeper, suddenly struck with fear of something he doesn't let himself notice either. Harry licks his lips, opening his mouth to speak.

But he's interrupted by the sudden smash of the front entrance doors. Niall walks in, red-faced and sweaty. He glances around frantically until he notices Liam, eyes growing wide. " _For fuck's sake, Liam!_ "

Immediately, Liam notices it's nighttime outside. Truthfully, he'd forgotten all about Niall. He got distracted; how ironic. "Well that was fast." He says sarcastically.

"Why the fuck don't you pick up your phone?!" Niall pants, appalled.

"Jesus, calm yourself. It hasn't rang." Liam says as he picks his phone from his lap and presses the unlock button.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!"

"What the hell do you mean?" The lock screen doesn't show up. Liam keeps the unlock button pressed down and watches it power on. "Oh it ran out of battery." He mumbles, embarrassed, standing up from the chair as he pushes his phone into his back pocket. "It wasn't my fault."

"This is the wrong fucking studio, Liam." Niall rolls his eyes, rubbing his face with his palms. "Do you know where you are? You're on the completely opposite side of the fucking building. I've been running around the entire school looking for you like I'm your fucking mother."

"Don't get mad at me! You gave me directions!" Liam swallows, feeling like he's let out a bit of steam. He lowers his voice, asking casually, "Where's Jessica?"

"Long gone, bro. Long gone."

He furrows his brow. "You didn't break up..."

"Jesus, over dinner? She left for dinner, she didn't leave _me_ for dinner. With her friends. She left without us."

Liam takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "I'm so fucking done with today..." And that's all he has to say. He opens his eyes to look at Niall, knowing he's thinking the same. And they can't even be angry at each other. They just blink, exhausted.

"Let's just go home. Come on."

"No, wait."

Liam turns around to see Harry isn't in the chair anymore, and panics for only a second before spotting him crouched by his duffel bag against the mirrors.

"Hey." He calls, walking over until he reaches him.

Harry looks up, "Was that your friend?" He asks, and looks back down to stuff his phone and charger into his bag.

Liam chuckles. "Yeah. Been a crazy fucking day."

Rising to his feet, Harry sticks out his hand and smiles. Liam quickly grabs it, shaking it. "It was nice meeting you." He says.

"Yeah." Liam smiles, and they let go of their hands. "Um..." He looks to his reflection in the mirror. Harry, thinking there's something to see, turns around, only to find Liam looking back at him. "Is it alright if we keep in touch?" Liam asks Harry's reflection.

And Harry turns around, telling the real Liam, "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Cool. I'll just give you my num— Shit. " He curses, hand halfway in his pocket. "Your phone's broken."

Harry had forgotten, himself. "Yeah." He frowns.

"Have you got a Facebook?"

"No. Sorry."

Liam's face sinks, sighing as he thinks of any last hope of them seeing each other again.

"What's your name?"

"What?" Liam wasn't paying attention.

"You never told me your name." He laughs.

"Liam!" Liam couldn't say it quicker. "Liam." And he can't keep from smiling. Introducing himself feels more exciting than it really should be.

"Liam."

Oh, he just loves the way Harry says his name; in that charming, sort of hoarse voice. _Leeum_. He knows he's ridiculous for it. "You're right, I never did tell you..." Liam comments aimlessly, as if he isn't giving his introduction thought beyond that.

"And I need to get those tickets to you, too." Harry mumbles.

"I'm sorry?"

"That we... um... need a way to keep in contact for the tickets, especially. To the ballet. You said you wanted to go."

"Exactly!" Liam rolls with it, ready to use as the primary reason he's so desperate and eager to keep in touch with Harry. "The tickets. God, I don't know how I'll contact you... Your mum's phone, maybe?" He laughs, hoping to get some kind of number from him.

Harry laughs with him, and he catches sight of Niall sweating angrily by the door. "Oh fuck, I'm keeping your friend waiting. Uh..." He crosses his arms and shrugs. "I'm here at the studio all the time."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I come here Monday through Friday. At 5pm. So, you could drop by, if you like. I'm always alone." He shrugs again.

"Cool. That's great." Liam buzzes at the certainty of their meeting again, feeling embarrassed within himself. "Right. I've gotta go. Like, seriously go." He laughs, and wipes his damp forehead. Waving at Harry goodbye, he feels the droplets sliding down his wrist and tries not to frown. "I'll see you around, mate!"

"Have a good night." Harry smiles, waving back.

Once out of view, Liam wipes his damp wrist as we walks down the hallway with Niall by his side. As if back to his senses, he's overwhelmed by the ache in the soles of his feet and the uncomfortable tug of his shirt.

"What the fuck was that back there?" Niall asks, amusement in his tone.

Liam turns his head, met with a smug smirk. "What?"

"Who was that?"

"Just some guy who was there. The guy actually using the room." Liam can feel that Niall is still looking at him, choosing to ignore him.

" _Is it alright if we keep in touch?_ " Niall mocks Liam, making him sound nasally and romantic.

"Shut up. I didn't say it like that."

" _You never told me your name, my darling._ "

"He did not call me darling..."

In the darkest corner of his mind, it makes Liam happy that Niall is joking about a romance between him and Harry. He hopes that the ocean current washes up an opportunity for friendship for them. Silently, secretly, praying for a storm to bring in something greater.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for taking so long! But, now that I have worked on other stories I am happy to focus on this one. The story now takes place one year after the first chapter. First I had discarded the first chapter completely. But, since so many people had read it, I decided to change the plot again according to the first chapter. I have been changing the plot a lot. What a terrible habit. I have decided on this one. I also did more research. One year! My writing has improved so much. I hope you like it! It is most similar to the original themes.
> 
> I made it very long, to make up for the terrible delay. I am sorry it took so long to update. Now I promise I will update frequently. I hope you all enjoy it!

_"Sight can be a choice."_

He's spent the last ten minutes rubbing his hands under the bathroom drier, but the color still hasn't come back. Looking at it is beginning to make him dizzy. Three shades; from his fingers, to his knuckles, to his hand, and there's a clear line dividing each one. No gradient. It looks inhuman. "Come on..." he whispers, bending his fingers again and again, shaking his whole hand below the wrist. _Shake well before use_ — it's never been this bad before.

"Oi, she's getting pissed off out there." They've sent the pianist in to check on him.

Startled, he turns around towards the sink, his back to the visitor, and quickly turns on the faucet to wash his hands. "Yeah, I'll be out in a minute."

"What are you doing?"

"Just tell her I'm coming in a bit, alright?"

The pianist sighs with the roll of his eyes, annoyed he'll have to deliver the unfavorable news back to his employer; face the wrath, just maybe. Our dancer keeps his hands running under the warm stream of water. Silent for a moment. Still, and unthinking. He moves his dripping hand to his side, and hesitantly flows his arm into a Vaganovian position to test. The joint in his wrist cracks. But he's satisfied knowing the motion passed uninterrupted. When he catches his reflection in the mirror he sees that he's wincing in pain. But he blinks that a way quickly, and makes a note to be more aware of that as he makes his way out of the bathroom, giving his hands a final good shake.

_"Sight can be a completely conscious decision. Not only can it be entirely optional, but its rendering is completely unique to its beholder. So even if you choose to see, there's pretty much no guaranteeing you'll be perceiving something for what it is depending on who you are. And on top of that, sight goes beyond just simple visual perception. So we have an optional, totally subjective, and conceptually limitless experience. Now throw in age! Now we have an optional, totally subjective and conceptually limitless experience that varies infinitely throughout the life of each individual being."_

Two of The Royal Ballet company's principal dancers have been cast as Clara and the Nutcracker Prince in a highly anticipated rendering of Tchaikovsky's The Nutcracker, premiering tonight. Except for the presence of their instructor and the company's pianist, they both rehearse alone long after scheduled rehearsals. The couple's dances have been riddled with unexpected particularities— and that never means anything good in ballet. Wash after wash to remove the stain.

"Let's pick up again, shall we? No more interruptions."

Our dancer takes place beside his partner, his hands subtly tucked behind his back. He gives his ankles another quick stretch— _crack!_ — before returning to his poise with a sigh. The instructor is a short little woman just under forty years old. Her neck is tightly wrinkled and her dark hair is tied in a ponytail after the sweat of frustration began to dampen her fringe. She paces, looks at both dancers and points,

"Hands on her waist, _please_."

And our dancer apologizes with a nod.

"Start the music."

" _What a mess. Right? It's complicated, right?_ "

Act 1 Tableau II: Part 8. Scene: A Pine Forest in Winter— a slow and beautiful andante picks up where it stopped last, as the dancers rehearse through choreography and perfect their technique for the umpteenth time.

From opposite sides of the studio they carefully come to join one another to greet, assuming a synced fifth en haut; their hands held up together, their hands pointed in. Our dancer bows before the ballerina who tip-toes her way to him with a smile. Together; he takes her outstretched hand and she lifts her thigh forward, carefully bringing her toe in as she lets her partner spin her around. She leans her body against him with a hand on his shoulder, and points that very leg outward as he gives her another careful spin on her tip-toe. They come together face to face. A soft and romantic melody plays on the piano as she pirouettes in his arms and gives a graceful dip backwards. He seems to give a strain as he holds onto her waist.

The instructor mumbles to herself, focusing on the male dancer's body with a frown.

_"It's not easy. And that's something we, as human beings, tend to overlook. Is perspective. In general. Throughout life. Perspective just seems to be a thing we all... lose 'sight' of throughout our lives. That's no different for psychologists. We're human beings. We're given the tools and this position where we can shape people into emotionally and mentally healthy human beings, but that doesn't mean we're perfect under the same standards we're judging others by."_

The couple take a step backwards as they hold on arm out towards each other, and then come together again with smiles. Another pirouette in his arms from which they're meant to depart— but the instructor stops the show.

"No... No, stop. Stop!"

The room comes to a standstill. All eyes are on the instructor as she storms to the dancers. To our dancer— the male dancer. She stands in front of him and looks him dead in the eyes. The dancer's hands are behind his back as he rubs his sore wrists. And the instructor— Larisa Kovtun— she's awfully upset. Been biting her tongue. And she lets him soak in his own guilt and humiliation. He knows better. But she doesn't understand why.

"You've done it _again_. _Stiff_ as a fucking board _again_ ," she whispers as she shakes her head. It shocks her to say it at all, and even more to her star principal dancer.  
He blinks his gaze away to the ground.

Miss Kovtun scoffs and walks backwards. "You are _lifeless_!" she announces to the empty room in frustration and disbelief. Turning around to face him, she goes on. "What's gotten into you? You were fine just moments ago and you're doing terribly again!" Again. It's been on and off again for a few days. A light switched on and then back off, and then back on again. The dancer has managed to correct himself to perfection again and again. But today he's fallen to a new low that betrays the expertise his ranking suggests. He can't explain it. But the way the dance instructor phrases herself makes it seem like she isn't looking for one. She sighs and comes to collect herself as she motions to his partner. "Minami, you were lovely," she throws out a bit indifferently. "You were a bit late um... quite a few times but with him I just— I'm not sure how much that was just him and not you. I can't even instruct you properly I..."

The petite dancer nods with a smile, poised just like the very character she's portraying. In her bun, her tutu, her baby blue tights. Against her warm complexion she's dressed pale and sweet and pretty. The male dancer contrasts her with his unconscious slouch, his baggy sweats, and his unstyled wayward curls. It doesn't help the implications of his dancing— laziness, incompetence.

Larisa the dance instructor isn't finished speaking her mind in a more soft, disappointed tone. "You do realize this is one of the first dances? Of an _hour's_ worth of choreography." Not that terribly. But it's a helpless position he puts her— and the whole show— in.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles in his deep, rural accent.

_"So what happens when a psychologist lacks perspective? They fail to understand their patient. And a psychologist who fails to understand his patient will not be able to treat that person successfully. And what are the consequences? Usually the patient realizes, they leave, he psychologist shrugs, they goes on twiddling their thumbs until another poor soul ventures into their hands."_

She tries to be of help in some way. "Listen, you have to be _inviting_ , now." And she walks over to Minami as she holds out her hand, acting as substitute of the Nutcracker Prince. Her ballet roots come through, and she acts out his routine to demonstrate the theatrics. With a smile, a boyish disposition in her dance, "You are _inviting_ her..." and she bows before her, "—to the Land of Sweets." Minami dances with the instructor for a bit. "You are thanking her." Reminders as they dance on, her many years of training helping her execute the routine to perfection without prior rehearsal. "For saving your life. You've been transformed back to your true form," with a smile, "and this is thanks to Clara." The instructor holds Minami's waist for her pirouette, and subsequent backwards dip. "You are... overjoyed, gracious— a prince." Larisa holds an embrace with Minami, and then breaks character to glare at the male dancer. "Not some stiff fucking ballet dancer!"

He agrees and understands perfectly. "Yeah." Not that he didn't before.

"Do remember that this is a story! I can't believe I have to remind you. You are playing a _character_ , here. You can't just go about the choreography and not tell the fucking story." With a frown her fists clench before her. "Where is your energy? Where is your soul? Must I really teach you _that_?"

"No. No."

"The show is _tonight_!" Early in the morning, they're long hours away from that.

_"But what happens when it's a child sitting across from that psychologist? What happens to that kid? Let's say 6, 7 years old. Is that psychologist gonna empathize with them any differently? Do they want to?"_

Up to his face again she confronts him. "Are you a dancer playing the Nutcracker Prince in a ballet, or are you the Nutcracker Prince?"

His heart is racing, his body aching under the stress. "The prince," he promises. It's not about that. But he can't say so.

"You're not leaving this building until you get this routine right, even if I have to lock you in."

"I'm sorry." He doesn't know what else to say.

And his instructor warns him, "Don't be fucking sorry, do your job. This is completely unacceptable, do you understand?"

"Yes."

She walks back to her place against the wall, right beside the piano player. Calming herself down she reminds him in a summary, "You are a prince, Clara has saved you, and you are inviting her to a journey into your world. Alright?"

He nods. Minami, his partner, nods too out of uncertainty.

"Understand?"

"Yes," he tells her as he quickly puts his hands on his partner's waist.

"Start the music again."

_"But more importantly, what's that little kid gonna do about it? Is he going to see that the situation isn't working? Can he see? Is it a choice? When does it become a choice? How do we know? When does a lack of perspective go from an inconvenience to an actual work hazard?"_

"Wait, stop."

This pause comes with an ominous air as the instructor comes walking his way.

"Let me see your hands."

_"The thing with child psychology is that people think it's easier to treat a child than it is to treat an adult. A child is more simple-minded, less complicated, less issues— but it couldn't be further from the truth. And you can't even put a comparison into black and white terms. A child is this, an adult is that— no. The only point A and point B in this world is the light you see when you come popping out of your mom's hoo-hah and the darkness you see when you close your eyes one last time. And in between is an average of 80 years of experiences that make for a constantly evolving state of being."_

With his hands hands in hers she looks down and inspects them. And her brow comes together for a deep frown. Her nimble fingers poke and rub around at his palms and bony knuckles.

_"There isn't an age where you start going through issues. Babies have internal conflict, toddlers have internal conflict. We have no idea of the degree of emotional complexity they're going through."_

"Your hands are freezing..." But that's not all. It's not the worst. Beyond that she doesn't know where to begin, or how to phrase her concern. And the dancer's eyes are wide, his own brow furrowed in some desperate fear. He wishes he could pull his hands back and run away. Whatever her icy blue eyes will make of his skin is disconcerting like a black cloud coming in.

_"So how could we possibly not approach their treatment with even more care and even more attention than we would an adult?"_

"Harry, are you alright?"

"It's an allergic reaction," he assures her a bit desperately. His eyes are strong and focused, his cold hands trembling in a sudden wave of nervousness. "I've already taken medication. I-In the bathroom. It'll be gone by tonight."

And she looks up at Harry skeptically, not knowing what to think. Or maybe, knowing exactly what to. But somehow not daring to.

"It's nothing, I promise."

It's over 100 miles away from that rehearsal room where a university professor's lecture in child psychology concludes his statement,

"We pop out of the womb afflicted. It just changes over time. You conquer one, and then comes the next, and the next, and then you..." He draws a skull and bones in red marker on the dry erase board. "die." And the class giggles. He's very pleased with this, and turns around with a goofy grin.

It's a generous class of about twenty-two. They like his little voice, and his careful and thoughtful approach to his teachings in child psychology.

"One of the first modern theorists to propose a life-span approach to psychological development was psychoanalyst Eirk H. Erikson." And he writes his name on the board, now switching back to a black dry erase marker. "He wrote that all individuals go through eight stages of their lives, resolving an inevitable 'crisis' at each one. Infant, toddler, preschooler, school-age, adolescent, young adult, middle-age, and old age. Since we're talking about children's psychology here, we're going to focus on the first five."

"Jesus, any fucking day, now."

Liam pulls out his phone to check the time. 10:40am. His professor is taking an unreasonably long time wrapping up class. If he's even trying at all. From outside the classroom door he peaks in through the little window to see that the professor is writing away at the board with no signs of stopping. He's ten minutes late. That's usually never bothered Liam, but he'll be late himself if Mr. Guyer takes too long. It's hard to hesitate at all when he knocks on the door, although careful not to be seen through the little window. There's a pause, and then Liam listens,

"Woah. Oh guys, class was actually over eleven minutes ago!"

The group of students waiting outside in the hallway give Liam an appreciative cheer with chuckles shared.

"Class is over?" someone inside the classroom asks.

"Yeah we'll pick up on this next class. You can go, now."

"That was the air conditioner. We started late," someone else comments. "Took the janitor a while to fix it."

"Yeah. Oh wait before you go!"

The group waiting outside moan in protest.

"Reminder: please bring your big uh... your big textbook I'm not sure what it's called but I know it's the biggest we've probably had for this class so. Yeah, next class! Bring it. I'll see you guys soon, okay?"

Students finally start passing through the classroom door and out into the hallway. And Liam, standing closest by, easily slips through the crowd and breaches the room. About nine students are left hurriedly gathering their things while the next class eagerly begins to settle— on account of their tired feet. But Liam doesn't head for a seat. He heads towards the professor.

Mr. Guyer: an exceptionally short man in his sixties. The white hair is disappearing at the very top of his head, and his body is rounded mildly. His square glasses and trimmed mustache are what trademark his face— but that's not particularly remarkable for a psychology professor to have trademarked. The voice is what makes him stand out altogether. At least in England. Professor Mason Guyer is from Texas, USA. And right now he's preoccupied, bent over his computer with his back towards the door. Liam takes advantage and sneaks up behind him with a mischievous smile and grabby little hands.

"Oi!" he says with the squeeze of Mr. Guyer's waist.

He yelps and gives a sharp turn backwards. "Wh— " But his expression beams bright until he's smiling wide. "Liam!"

"Guyer~" Liam sings as he gives his old university professor a hug. "I've come for a visit!"

"Well I'm glad you did," he laughs.

It's a beautiful Wednesday morning Liam has decided to interrupt. With sweatpants and his brown hair lightly combed back he's there as a casual and comfy presence— juxtaposing with the upper class students settling in the room. He's giving the big room a few looks as Guyer finishes sending some kind of e-mail on his laptop. Liam's never been here before, and is pleased to know he's met his old professor without trouble. "I found out this is where you were teaching when I visited my old school. Decided to pay you a visit today since I've got time to kill."

"How are you? How are things?" Guyer starts as he faces Liam again. "I've got about five minutes by the way."

"I'm great. I'm good. I was meani—"

"Good! You working?"

 _I was meaning to ask you something._ "Yeah. I've got my own little office."

"Oh so you opened up your own private practice! That's great. I'm glad to hear that. That's hard. How is that?"

Liam smiles. "It's actually really great! I've got a place rented out in London." London is expensive. "It's in a huge building and my office is huge. I've got like, a ten foot window going all across and I can see the whole city," he brags eagerly. He wasn't expecting to.

"No way." Guyer is wide eyed and smiling, congratulating Liam with a pat on the shoulder. "What, in like, central London?" The rich part.

"South London. My office is in Croydon. It's quite nice! It's just an hour away from here."

Mr. Guyer doesn't seem to know where that is, and gives an somewhat dispassionate nod. Liam's disappointed. He was ready to brag about Purley, a green paradise both on the fields and in the bank. Ancient forests, golf courses and natural reserves. The place where central city residents go or move to altogether to live along the countryside— essentially the evergreen London but with a lot more Tesco's. "London, that's pretty far from here. Pretty far from— what was it, Birmingham? Where you lived?"

"Wolverhampton. A bit higher."

"I've always liked the sound of Wolverhampton."

"That's like a three hour drive-- from uh, Wolverhampton to my office."

"Oh but you don't live there anymore, do you? You'd be crazy to make that drive."

And Liam is eager to say, "No I've moved to London as well." Should've made that clear.

"So you're paying a flat _and_ an office in London. Impressive," he admits, to Liam's satisfaction. "If you're not in debt, that is. Have you come here to ask me for clients? Or just brag." And he squints his eyes with a sly smirk. "Probably brag. I see."

"No! I need a favor. I was trying to tell you."

"Ah. Okay then. What favor?"

"I need books."

"Oh you know I can't give you my school books."

"No I mean like, recommendations." And he explains, "I need books to fill up my bookshelf in my office. I've got a bookshelf but it's mostly empty." His old textbooks and young adult novels only fill up one of three shelves. Liam isn't much of a reader. Bookshelves is just a common denominator he's observed in most if not all medical offices. A matter of decorating.

"Yeah, I get it. Uh..." And he looks down at his watch. "Okay, two minutes," he mutters as he starts shuffling through things on his desk. Liam glances at the students that were once grateful for his presence. Now they're annoyed, seeing him as the cause of their further delay. He shrugs with a giggle. "You picked a bad time, Liam."

"Well I don't know your schedule, that's why! I don't go here. This is a nice school."

Guyer bends over his desk. "Mhm." With a pen and notepad, he begins to jot down book titles for Liam to purchase. "Any subjects in particular?"

"Just anything really."

"Okay." And to keep a friendly conversation going he asks, "So how many clients do you have?"

"Uh... fifteen a week. About £80 to £120 per session."

"Aweeesome. That's like £5,000 a week, dude! Nice." And he shoots him a grin.

Liam laughs a bit awkwardly at that congratulation. "Yeah."

"Are those still the ones referred by the hospital?"

The hospital. "Yeah they uh... After the internship they sent some of my old patients my way. But I've got new ones as well."

"I guess you didn't need that job there after all."

And Liam finds himself quiet, and somewhat faltered. "Wait, so you know?"

"What?"

"Have you talked with the people at the uh... the hospital? The staff?"

"Yeah! I'm buddies with a few of them. They told me a little bit about your time there. They all miss you! They're gonna be so happy to know you're doing well in London."

There's a standard and dishonest smile Liam's plastered on his face. He isn't sure how to get rid of it. _He's friends with them... Does he know about..._ , he wonders. And he isn't sure about what to say. He turns to the silent, tense classroom. Avoiding their gazes, he turns to the dry erase board. "Erikson's Method. Infant, toddler, preschooler, school-age, adolescent." Guyer always had the nicest handwriting. "Did you ever teach us that?"

"You're making £5,000 a week being a child psychologist and you don't know about Erikson's Method?"

"I never said I was a psychologist. I'm a counselor."

And Guyer makes a face. "Oh."

"Why 'oh'?" he frowns.

The paper is halfway full with book names. Mr. Guyer shrugs, elbows on his table. "Child _counseling_ is just so... wishy-washy."

"What's wishy-washy?" Liam is offended, and his old professor finds it amusing.

"Ah, don't mind me. Here!" With a rip the page comes off the notepad, and Guyer stands up straight and hands Liam the long list of recommended books. "They're big, too. So they'll fill up the shelves."

Personality: Contemporary Theory and Research; Schizophrenia Genesis: The Origin of Madness; Cognition; The Dance of Intimacy; Handbook of Child Psychology Vol. 4. Socialization, Personality, and Social Development— on and on the list goes.

"Oh this is brilliant!" Liam grins at the long list. There's no way he could've stumbled upon any on his own. These are small, local, cheap. Online the shipping is too much.

"You know where to get them?"

"Yeah."

"You should come see me at twelve o'clock by the way. That's when I have lunch. Alone. I have Wednesdays, Thursdays and Sundays off. But every other day: twelve o'clock. Here. Okay?"

"Yeah."

Guyer gives Liam a playful shove, his body coming forward as he pushes him towards the door with both hands. The class laughs. "It was great seeing you, Liam~!" he sings.

"You too!"

The hallway is empty when Liam ends up standing outside. He looks down at the paper and counts twenty-seven titles with a pleased nod. He can't wait to buy them all.

Liam's office is located in a mostly vacant four storey building right beside a string of car dealerships. The first independent step of his career. London, and that's all that matters. He gets to tell people he's living and working in London. So Liam accomplished his goal. He wanted to be working as soon as he left his internship at the public hospital, while his drive and memory of his school curriculum was still fresh in his mind. Liam has landed himself appointments with patients on a weekly basis. Liam does love his job. The best, above anything, is knowing he's doing right by a cause close to his heart. He also loves speaking in a small voice, and not having to use big words that weren't jotted in his vocabulary to begin with. Connecting with his patients is an ability he wouldn't change for the world, and one that has yet to come as an inconvenience— much less a problem.

A few hours later and Liam has arrived in his office. Changed his clothes and settled in. "Someone is late..." he mumbles to himself as he looks up at the clock propped on his wall. The frame is in the shape of a giant apple with a poorly proportioned face and large glasses. 'Learning time is fun time!' it reads in large font. _"Okay but counseling is also a learning process. I'm teaching life skills and like, healthy coping mechanisms,"_ he's explained when it was pointed out to be a decorative piece more suited for a school classroom than a children's counselor's office. The person to quietly note that was the mother of the very patient ten minutes late for their session today— their first. On that particular day a Mrs. Wilkins had come to Liam's office to discuss the possibility of him taking her son as a patient. And he said yes, and now they're late. Though, Liam doesn't have any other patients scheduled afterwards. So there's no consequences for him to be worried about. But he does hate waiting. So Liam goes on to spin in his swivel chair restlessly and pout into the horizon. "Busy busy. I'm such a busy guy. Can't keep me waiting. I haven't got the time. Tsk tsk." He looks over at the clock again. "Twelve minutes." And shakes his head with deep disapproval.

_Knock knock knock._

"Ah!" Liam yelps delightedly as he hops out of his chair and rushes to the door. "Oop—" Not before he pulls out his glasses from his pocket and puts them on. A most essential accessory. "Catherine! Hello!" he smiles as he opens the door.

Catherine and her son stand in the hallway with rehearsed smiles. "Sorry we're late."

 _You're terribly late. This is completely unacceptable._ "Not to worry! Come on in. I've got no other clients today. Loads of time to spare." _You fucking blew it, Jesus Christ._

"Thank you." The mother gives an apologetic smile as she hurries her son inside. "The traffic to get here is unbelievable."

"Is it?" Liam asks worriedly. "Has it always been that way?" He hopes that won't be a problem for patients. He's already situated in a haunted tower.

"No, not at all! It's fine, no worries." A perfectly ironed suit hints that Catherine is a busy and successful lady. Corporate office? Bank? Central London for sure. The tall heels cause Liam to silently lament the stairs she had to walk. She seems exhausted behind her flawless manners and lovely disposition. The parents always are. It's probably the stairs. "The stairs are what killed me!" It was the stairs. Liam can only ever smile awkwardly. "But it's better than taking that shady lift, yeah?"

The one prone to dropping down for a few seconds before going back up. Catherine really catches on fast. Liam is relieved he gets to avoid talking it. "You are absolutely right."

"Oh, this is Elvis," she sings. Her hoarse voice just a little bit raspier than Liam remembers last. "The one we talked about." And she gives Elvis an encouraging shake as she tells him, "Say hi to Dr. James."

"What's up, Elvis?" Liam smiles down at little Elvis.

The little boy stands by his mother's side with an unsure smile and a backpack strapped to his shoulders. Still in his school uniform; pressed and lint-free. He's of warm oak complexion like his mother, with gently jaundiced eyes and coiled black hair he is very keen on keeping trimmed. _"He just loves fashion. You'll see. Elvis has got a little style of his own."_ Eight years old, the smartest boy in his class. The affliction: he used to be the loudest, and has recently quit a number of extracurricular activities with no indication why. Young Elvis just seems down these days, despite doing better in school. When the school counselor was of no help, the little boy's mother sought Liam's services after a quick scan through the phonebook.

Elvis looks up, but turns away from Liam's gaze. Not rudely, not fearful.

"He's a bit shy," she apologizes.

Liam smiles and looks up at the mother. "That's alright. Why don't we uh... Why don't me and Elvis get started, get to know each other, and then you can come on in and we can all have a talk together?"

Liam's office is divided into two rooms. One would be his actual office with his desk and case files, as well as chairs and a small couch where his patients sit for some one on one counseling. A door in the corner then leads to the waiting room where they're all standing now, with another door which thereafter leads out to the hallway. When his sessions start, he'll open the door that divides him from the waiting room and he'll call in his child patient. After fourty-five minutes comes in the parent for a summary. And then they're written for a brand new appointment, and then they're off.

Catherine nods, happy to be receiving help for her son at last.

"What do you say, Elvis?" Liam asks. "You ready for us to get to know each other?"

"Yeah," he peeps, this time looking up at his new therapist.

 _Cute kid_. Liam smiles. "Great!"

"Here, Elvis, let me take your bag."

Elvis begins to whine as his mother puts her hands on his backpack.

"No no, that's alright! He can keep the bag." Liam chuckles a bit nervously. If there's one thing he can never manage well it's crying children. But Elvis quiets down without a single tear shed, and Liam is relieved. He seems easygoing. And Catherine seems embarrassed by what Liam guesses isn't her son's usual behavior. He opens the door leading to his office, and as Elvis quietly departs inside Liam informs his mother, "We'll be about fourty minutes. When we're done I'll call you in, yeah?"

Catherine takes a seat on the couch and nods. "See you in a bit, Elvis!" And Elvis waves goodbye before Liam closes the door.

Once alone, Catherine sinks into the couch with her head thrown back and a deep groan as she kicks off her heels. And she whispers, "West _fucking_ Croydon. Eugh."

Beyond the door Liam's session with Elvis has begun. He asks him for standard information to jot down in his brand new file for him— name, parents' name, birthday, where he lives, etc. Elvis is from Kensington. Parents are still together. No siblings and no pets. Whatever Elvis couldn't answer Liam will ask his mother later. Up next for Elvis were some fundamental questions. _"Are you sleeping well?Are you hearing voices or seeing things nobody else can, Elvis? No thoughts of harming yourself or anything like that, right?"_ The younger the patient, the lighter he puts it. Elvis answers them all perfectly. Once that's out of the way, Liam flips the page to make session notes. With a pen held between his fingers, he sits back in his chair and begins to talk.

"Good news, Elvis, we've got all the boring questions out of the way. That's a relief, innit?"

Elvis nods, his backpack placed across his lap. Liam eyes it for a moment and notices it's a Minions backpack. He breaks the ice and says, "I really like your backpack, by the way. Are those those little Minion fellows?" He writes on the paper,

_likes minions._

The little boy looks down at his backpack. "Yeah."

"Do you like Minions?"

"Not really."

"Oh."

~~_likes minions._ ~~

"Well tell me, what do you like?"

"Uh..." Elvis eyes around Liam's office, possibly distracted, possibly nervous. But Liam doubts the latter. "I like music."

_likes music._

"Yeah? What kind of music?" To make it easier, he suggests, "Rock, hip-hop, pop?"

"I like classical. And... I like rap as well. I like the girls cos they sing better. I don't like the guys."

"So like Nicki Minaj and stuff?"

_likes classical music. girl rappers._

"Yeah, Nicki Minaj... uh... Angel Haze, Lauryn Hill, Missy Elliot..." Elvis is getting comfortable talking about the things he likes and that's according to Liam's plan. He's perked up and mumbles a little less. "I think that's it, actually. But I— I like Beyonce, too. And Cher."

"That's some good music you listen to there."

_has good taste in music._

"And what about classical. You said you liked classical music."

Elvis seems eager to talk about that. Liam can tell when he sits up straighter with a big sigh. "Do you mean instruments or composers?" he asks, looking to Liam's papers.

"Whichever you like."

"I like piano. I like Tchaikovsky and Claude Debussy, and Chopin. And Bach."

_chicovskee, ~~clawd~~ claud debussy, chopin, bock._

"My grandmum buys me the CD's. She works at a record store, back in Kensington."

"Your grandmum sounds cool."

"She's not."

"Oh. Okay," Liam giggles. "Do you know the songs? Do the songs have names, the classical songs?" But that's mostly Liam's curiosity, and his desire to hold a genuine conversation with Elvis.

"Not all of them. Sometimes the only thing that's got a name is the album, and the rest is uh... stuff like, 'movement 8' and stuff like that." Elvis expresses himself well for an eight year old. A big vocabulary is there behind his amateur execution. "Like, for example, uh, Tchaikovsky, he's got Swan Lake. I like Swan Lake."

_"We have a huge show coming up in the winter. We've been rehearsing since last year."_

_"What's it called?"_

_"Swan Lake. It's really cool."_

Liam accidentally scribbles a line of ink an inch across on his paper. "O-Oh." Like a brief power outage, he loses himself. But he doesn't know what just happened. Liam frowns down at the mistake he made on the paper, and blinks his hazy gaze back to Elvis. "Swan Lake."

"Yeah, Swan Lake's my favorite," he smiles, flashing his crooked milk teeth. "I even like the movie. The Swan Princess, it's a cartoon movie."

_"Yeah, from Black Swan! It's a pretty big deal for me. It's my absolute favorite ballet. Out of any. It's amazing to be in it."_

Hunched over on his elbows. Liam taps his uncapped pen across his desk, unknowingly leaving dots of ink all over the paper. His eye contact with Elvis is steady, stable, and a little unnerving in its vacuity. "Y-You... You been to the ballet?"

"No. But I really want to."

"I uh..." He breathes, and blinks his pace back. "I almost uh— I almost... went to see. Swan Lake. Once. That was last year."

_"But I think I could get you some free tickets, if you'd like some. By the time the show starts playing. You could attend the premiere."_

_"Really?! Are you sure you can, like... You can do that?"_

_"Yeah. We can always get some free tickets. Shall I get you some, then?"_

"Why didn't you go?"

"Oh..." Liam laughs and blinks away at the wall with a gentle recline in his chair. "Uh..." When Liam looks down at the file paper he sees he wrote down,

_the prince. prince of swan lake._

No recollection. "Well..."

███████████████████

With the words scribbled away from existence, Liam directs his attention back to Elvis. Worried about losing his friendly appeal in the eyes of his still somewhat guarded new patient, he tries to get back to conversing. He can't get to anything deep if they aren't at a stable base point yet. "I like to dance," he says, rejecting the thought that he's lying. Liam does like dance. When drunk, and for laughs. Elvis probably thinks he's good.

"I like dancing, too."

Common ground. Liam smiles. "Nice! We have that in common, then."

"What sort of dancing do you like?"

He's delighted Elvis asked _him_ a question. The little boy smiles at him, letting Liam know he's trying. And Liam smiles back. "Well I like just quite silly dancing!" he admits. "Um... I suppose hip hop? A bit. But I'm quite shi— _bad_. I'm bad, sorry." And they laugh together. Liam pushes up his glasses with the poke of his finger before asking, "What sort of dancing do you like, Elvis?"

"Presley."

"I'm sorry?"

"My friends call me Presley. You can call me Presley."

"Like Elvis Presley?" he grins.

"Yeah but just Presley."

"Alright, Presley. That's cool. I like that."

_call him presley._

And Presley smiles, mostly at his own initiative. "Uh... anyway, I like ballet."

"H- _a_!"

They both go quiet.

"My pen is just... Would you look at that!" Liam forces a trio of ha's as he lifts his file papers and shows Presley the four inch line he inexplicably drew across the paper. "What has just—! What has gotten into me." And he sets it back down on his desk. "My goodness. I am so silly. Haha! Awful." And his cheeks go red. It isn't so much the mention of ballet that has him flustered— it isn't at all. Liam finds himself more overwhelmed at the involuntary reaction he's harbored to the mere mention of ballet. _What the fuck just happened?_ And he isn't sure where it comes from. Except he is.

Liam knows exactly where it's coming from.

"Perhaps you've got a muscle disorder. Or eplepsy." Presley means epilepsy. "Or perhaps you've had a stroke. Do you eat various of... fatty foods? That stuff's bad on your brain."

"I've not had a stroke," Liam laughs. _Might as well._ He feels malfunctioned. Like someone should hit him a few times to get a good signal going again. "So you'd like to be a ballerina?" But Presley didn't say that. "Oh, sorry—"

"Yeah."

 _Oh no._ "Really?" Liam sees that Presley is relaxed and pouting, which is more than Liam can say for himself. He looks down at the lined paper for his session notes, and tries to find his footing again with a sigh.

_wants to be ballerina._

"That sounds lovely. What makes you want to be a ballerina?"

"I like the way they dance. They're like, like... uh.... they're really special."

"Yeah. They are. Yeah..." Liam smiles fondly as he rests his head on one propped up hand. "They're just beautiful, aren't they? With their... toned, strong bodies and dimpl— l-leotards. Simple leotards. In nude colors, I believe."

Elvis doesn't think anything when Liam begins to blink in quick succession. "Yeah. They remind me of fairies. I wanna be a fairy, too. With wings and stuff."

Liam nods to shake away a fluttering feeling that floated by and lingered unwelcome. "I like that." It's always nice to see a little kid who's special. In a way it inspires something in Liam. Protection, maybe. Special kids always have some kind of trouble ahead of them. Because that's the way the way life is set to be. Deviate and you're taking the exit off the highway and into a back road. Who knows how bumpy it'll be?

~~_wants to be ballerina._ ~~

_wants to be fairy ballerina._

"I reckon your mum and dad don't like that." And Liam shrugs. "Just guessing. Do they know?"

Presley looks down at his Minions backpack, tapping his fingers against the plastic as he swings his dangling legs. "Yeah. They say that's not gonna make me any good money."

_disapproval from parents. pressure to succeed._

Now they're getting somewhere. "But ballet dancers do make a lot of money. They can be very successful." And Liam finds himself quiet. Not in silence, but in spirit. Not in a bad way. Not that he can tell. He blinks down at his notes and sighs disapprovingly at his own delay. And his own misguided comment. "I once knew a balleri— ballet dancer. He was very famous and very good." _Come off it. You never knew him._

"Is he your friend?"

"Nah." _Doesn't matter. Move along._ "I sort of... ran into him but... Anyway, just because you'd like to be a ballerina— I mean, a ballet dancer, doesn't mean you won't make money in the future. By any means."

"They put me in a school."

"Your parents?"

Presley nods.

"A ballet school?"

"Yeah."

"And how did that go?"

"Well I didn't like it very much."

"Why not?"

And Presley sighs. "Well, it's not that I didn't like it. But I just uh, I wasn't— I'm not very good anyway... I wasn't good like I thought I was gonna be. And I knew nobody wanted me to be a ballerina so... I just quit. My dad was very cross. Cos he spent a lot of money. But then he was always telling me I wasn't any good!" he complains with a frown. "And then he got mad once I _did_ quit. Everyone was like that..."

_quit ballet. insecurity and guilt. contradictory reactions to pursuing ballet."everyone" mad once he quit. what a mess._

"So because other people didn't like it, that made you not like it as well?"

"Yeah."

"And when did that happen?"

"Over the summer."

_quit ballet over the summer._

"Would you still like to be a ballet dancer?" _Do you still hold onto the dreams you know are no good?_ And Liam sits up straight. "Well, you just told me you did. So tell me about that." He looks over at the apple clock. Twenty minutes left. Time flies.

Elvis's eyes are soft and placid in a miserable-looking way. Like he's resigned to something. And that bothers Liam. No eight year old should be resigning to anything. "I'm not very good... Sometimes you've uh... You've got to listen to people, sometimes. I suppose everyone was right about how I shouldn't be a ballerina fairy."

Liam finds himself sharing that quiet resignation for just a minute. Like taking a sip from the same cup. "You change yourself a bit, yeah? To suit others? Or to... just avoid problems?"

"Yeah. I don't want to cause any problems for myself. My friends tell me I'm quite sensitive. Everyone would... yell at me a lot and make fun of me cos... I wanted all the stuff and the— uh, the things I liked. No one liked it. And I was wrong a lot. I got tired of being wrong. I realized they might've been right."

A poster behind Presley and on the wall reads, 'How are you feeling today?' followed by six rows of five faces across, each labeled with their respective feelings. Exhausted, confused, ecstatic, guilty, suspicious— it goes on. _Confused and... depressed, maybe_ , Liam thinks. "My friends tell me the same.." _Overwhelmed?_ And he nods, resting his cheek on his hand with a sigh. "Do you think you're insecure?"

"I guess."

"You think you might be impulsive? You don't think things through very well when you do them?"

"I always think I can," he tells Liam.

"Do your friends or family ever tell you you're a bit unrealistic? In your ambitions?"

"Yeah."

Liam nods. "Yeah..." He blinks up at the poster. _Anxious_ , he reads. And purses his lips. "Do you get nervous a lot?" he asks Presley. "And you become frightened by things that maybe other people don't worry about as much as you do?"

"It's not anxiety."

Liam gives a surprised chuckle. _How does he know that word?_ "And what's anxiety?" In Presley's mind.

"I looked it up on my dad's tablet." Of course. "It's when you're uh... everything's on your mind. And you get like, anxious about too much stuff. And you get sweaty and panic."

That's the jist of it. "You don't think that happens to you?"

"No. Cos it's not about everything. It's just about my future. And... the uh, the quality of my life."

Liam nods with melancholy, his glasses crooked as he squishes his face against his palm. "And how would you describe the quality of your life?"

"Well... it's all better now. I'm doing well in school. I was doing very poorly. And I was losing my friends because of the ballet stuff. But.. I take away the stuff I like but... I still miss it all quite a lot. Yeah."

"So... everyone's more accepting of you ever since you... gave up on... your dreams?" Like Liam wants an update. A review.

"Things are going well for me now."

"Yeah?" He's frowning. The little boy is so well put together. Glowing and wealthy and prospering everywhere he doesn't care about. "You don't look well, though."

"I'm waiting for... an opportunity."

"An opportunity?"

"I'm waiting to disappoint everybody," Presley tells him with a grin, like it's a plan.

Liam chuckles, a quizzical expression. "Oh?"

But the little boy doesn't elaborate, and instead goes quiet as he slumps in his chair again. Liam just watches him, feeling like he's sinking into another state of being without thinking about where that might be. His eyes feel heavy as he dozes off. _The opportunity to disappoint everyone_ , he thinks. If Presley won't elaborate he will. What a fascinating concept. It sounds so brave.

Like an escape.

"What was his name?"

Presley frowns. "What?"

"I can't remember his name..." Liam is reclined back in his chair as he points his head up to the ceiling. And he whispers again, "Dennis... Danny... Billy..? Billy the ballerina..."

Long brown curly hair and teenie tiny shorts that you could see the bottom half of his ass out of when he lifted his leg to do a piroette. Or a split. There were tattoos all over his supple body including a somewhat unsightly black panther head on his thigh. That was the special part— Liam remembers now. The heavy black tattoos on that graceful frame. And the great ass. And the

"Dimples..."

and the

"bunny teeth..." Liam chuckles to himself.

And the deepest voice ever. And wide-set eyes. He wishes he could remember the color. It had to be blue.

Liam sighs and drops his head forward again, now resting it sideways against his shoulder as he slowly rotates himself in circles in his chair, on the very tips of his toes. En pointe. "Ballet is really pretty, innit?" he says as he looks at the passing decorations on his wall. "Princes and swans and fairies and all that." Liam notices he has a bin of toys sitting in the corner, and puzzles and building blocks. He has yet to use them. "They've got all the good stuff. It's easy to get lost in that, I suppose, from the outside perspective." A full 360° spin and he's passing Presley again as he goes on for another full circle. "We're the ones looking into the illusion, we're the ones giving it meaning. It's such a metaphor, innit? For magic and... denial. And we'd much rather keep it that way, wouldn't we? We'd all like to believe there's beauty and magic somewhere."

Swan Lake, the Sugarplum Fairy, the Nutcracker Prince— Liam's never stopped to wonder who the people behind these stories are. If they're just forlorn souls looking to make magic, or business savvy individuals who are mindful of the money to be made off those very forlorn souls. Liam figures he's an easy target for all kinds of pathetic declines in mood. Weakness, after all. Sometimes he thinks his strength stops at his biceps, and the rest of him is just pillow stuffing waiting to be flattened by a big, heavy head. And that's an allegory of no logic. Liam isn't sure where to find comfort and he isn't sure what brought this state of pensiveness upon him. Except he does. Perturbation and ballet are by no means mutually exclusive. But here they are, squished between two buns and making their way down Liam's throat.

"People can be so mean sometimes, yeah? There's... reality and fantasy pulling you on either side. Ballet on one..." And he whispers under his breath, "a successful career on the other. Such a metaphor." And Liam sets his feet flat on the ground as he stops himself. Facing the wall. He turns himself around as he says, "Wouldn't you agree?" And he's puzzled by the sight he's met with.

At some point Presley pulled out sassy winged sunglasses from his Minions backpack and propped them on his ears. They cover over half his face and are most likely his mother's. Maybe this is some coping mechanism where Presley would rather pretend he's invisible than listen to Liam's existential monologue. For Liam's sake. Save him the humiliation of having a witness.

The apple clock tells Liam he has just seven minutes left before he has to call in Catherine. And he nods to himself. "Alright. Presley."

"Yeah?"

"Here's uh... here's what we're going to do. Actually..." Liam opens a bottom drawer on his desk where he keeps two stacks of composition notebooks. The left stack is Star Wars, the right is Peppa Pig. He grabs one from the left stack before closing the drawer. "Now, this notebook is mine. But you can have it. I'm giving it to you," he lies, choreographed as part of his counselor's routine. "Do you like Star Wars?"

"No," says Presley as he takes the notebook from Liam's grasp. He looks extra dismissive on account of the giant sunglasses.

"Great. Do you know why I gave you that notebook, Presley?"

Presley examines the pages of the notebook. Possibly to see if they're used. "Because you don't want it?"

Liam narrows his eyes. "No. No, that's not it." He leans forward in his chair and props himself on his elbows. A deep, and caring expression. "That notebook is yours now. I want you to have it." _I already said that._ Presley can tell. "Do you know what it's for?"

The little boy shakes his head. Again, the sassy sunglasses give him an icy air. Thankfully he lets them fall down his nose a little bit. Now Liam can see his sweet and puzzled eyes.

"That's going to be your little journal."

And Presley frowns.

"But it's a different kind of journal!" Liam laughs. "You're going to know yourself a little bit better with this."

"How am I... going to know myself a bit better with this?"

"Whenever you catch yourself thinking all those things you don't wanna say, and all those things you don't wanna do cos you're afraid you'll be a burden on your parents or your friends or anything like that— instead of holding it all back and keeping it inside, or throwing it away, I want you to write them down in there," Liam says with a finger pointed to the composition notebook. He can tell Presley is catching onto the idea. Or, at least he's open to it.

"Why have I got to write it for?"

"So you don't lose track of yourself. Stay grounded, yeah?"

Presley nods.

"The thing is, people are going to make you feel like you have to be just like them, and do all the things you want them to. That's what grown-ups do. But instead of letting them take the fun away, you put it here first. So you'll always know where you are, and they can't get to you. So, maybe you'll wind up more quiet, not causing problems, but you'll always have a chance to just be yourself whenever you like."

"So it's like I'm gonna be living a double life?"

"You... You could call it that! We'll see," he shrugs. "You've gotta see how it feels for yourself. Right now you're just living a different life, I think. You've got no place to be yourself. Would you agree with that?"

Presley nods again with the purse of his lips, and pushes his sunglasses back up.

"So you go on and draw your little pictures, write your stories, you thoughts— anything about you that makes you you that you're afraid other people won't like. Instead of just forgetting about it. You can figure out what you want to do, writing it all for yourself. See, while you act all grown up and boring in the real world, you can say all your secrets and talk about everything your parents don't want you to talk about. You can still be you and you can still be silly in your little notebook there."

What Newton's Law is to Isaac Newton, this contrived exercise in self acceptance is the same to Liam. It's worked very well, so far. Like a movie he just can't stop recommending. His signature, of sorts. And Liam doesn't think he's ever wanted to help out a patient more than Elvis "Presley" Wilkins.

"You can grow and see who you are there. No one can take those parts away. Let's try that, yeah? See how that turns out?"

"But what if I lose the notebook?"

Liam's face turns stoic. A moment of vacant tension shared in the room.

And Liam opens the drawer again and reaches inside. "Would you like another one?

The remaining four minutes of their one-on-one session are spent smoothly, and Liam quickly transitions into a meeting with Presley's mother thereafter. He remembers his footing there.

"But what’s wrong with him?”

The usual question. Liam should buy a jar and start taking coins. It’s such an unkindly phrased concern. Although, Catherine saved it for last— seemingly dissatisfied with Liam’s official and scanty report. Maybe she expected a diagnosis. On that note Liam reminds her, "You don’t have to worry about that, Catherine. This is counseling.” With a smile, and the interlocking of his fingers on top of his desk. "There’s no detrimental affliction here—not that I can see. Elvis has got some problems that are really no different from the ones we as adults go through ourselves. The difference is, a little eight year old might have too much trouble with that. There’s a lot on his plate already. Think of it as an advanced stage! He’s still an amateur.”

And Catherine nods, placing a supportive arm over Presley’s shoulder. Liam’s glad she understands.

"This is just the first session. It's a process, of course. There’s going to be lots of sessions. Obviously these things don’t have a set pattern by any means. It varies from kid to kid.”

"What do you think so far? I mean, what is it that you suspect? I’d like to understand him and what he’s feeling and see if I can do anything at this point. Anything would be helpful. I understand it is a bit early for anything official, but just—like I said, at first glance. What do you see?”

And Liam purses his lips. His eyes mindlessly land on the poster behind Catherine and her son. ‘How are you feeling today?’ So many faces. Liam has never stopped to read them all. And the poster is so far away. These glasses don't even help him see from afar. Down to his session notes again.

_wants to be fairy ballerina. disapproval from parents. pressure to succeed. quit ballet. insecurity and guilt. contradictory reactions to pursuing ballet."everyone" mad once he quit._

"Well…"

_what a mess._

"There is insecurity. There is a big-- ...He's changed himself. People have brought this insecurity down on him. So, he's given in to what everyone would like of him." Liam is so careful with his words. And so quiet. He keeps his hands clasped together on his desk as he sits forward, his eyes shifting blindly across his wall decorations.

The mother nods, deeply moved. The lengthy lashes glued to her lash line fan up and down slowly, her interest slowing her reflexes.

"And things are going better for him, he feels. But... I mean, it's not a fix-all. That doesn't mean he's gonna be happy. Presley—"

"Elvis—"

"—is just responding naturally to the pressures that society puts on his dreams, and his imagination, and who he is as a person. It challenges them and, frankly, he's not up for confrontation. After a while, you know, he doesn’t want to seem like too stubborn or stupid of a person. He seems to have just surrendered himself to it all and is giving up on quite a lot of things he used to really enjoy.”

"Wow.”

"He's come to terms with the fact that things just haven't gone his way and he does realize that now. And the timing is quite inconvenient. He was already into his projects when he just... quit ballet. There is a version of himself that's more convenient to be, honestly. Deep down he knows it’s what's best for him. Because he's, well, dramatic and sensitive and a bit impulsive and he doesn’t always make the best decisions.”

"Really?”

"But, you know, people just don't give him enough credit. Or like, decency.. Because it is starting to dawn on him that his dreams are… failed dreams. And his judgement is quite poor. And everyone was right and he was wrong all along. And that came about actually pretty suddenly. It’s caught him by surprise this—this realization that he has been wrong. Completely. That everyone else was right and what he thought was the smart thing might not have been the smart thing after all. Cos like I said he is quite impulsive. But there's no point in demonizing him for that, really, you musn't antagonize someone for something like that.”

Presley’s mother has furrowed her brow, swallowing with the shift of her hip in that old lumpy seat every time she catches herself ready to object. Liam isn’t even looking at her.

"Not everyone adjusts the same way to the things people want from them. I think if we got to understanding that… then maybe he could get to being a happier guy. Like, I feel like people are just hard on him, and the person he is. He's doing this wrong, he's not meeting his potential there— always criticizing him. You know, that's not very good for your ego. That hurts it, quite a bit. People really should just let him be and maybe just let him fail and succumb to misery!” Liam looks at Catherine with the upwards push of his shoulder. "Maybe? It's nobody's bloody business! I'm tired, you know? I'm tired. But I…” And he shifts in his seat, too. His body leaned forward, elbows on the table. "I actually don’t… know if I should call it quits. I don’t know. I don’t know. Jesus, I can't call it quits…” he says solemnly. "I've worked so hard. Right? Presley?”

Presley is picking his nose.

"It’s just so weird, Catherine.” Liam can’t believe it. The unbelievably low place he actually is in his life. His eyes are just wide enough to mark his distress, his disbelief. "It's the weirdest place, and it's the weirdest feeling. You wake up one morning and... and you ask yourself, 'My God, am I really wasting my life here? Am I going to regret everything I'm doing now? Am I going to regret everything else? In life? In my job? In my relationships?' You know, everything is slipping away. And you just keep waiting for something. You keep waiting on anything, anything magical, anything fantastic, to sort of whisk you away and make you feel brave enough to keep doing the wrong thing. That’s it.”

_the prince. prince of swan lake._

"That’s it. You just want something that’s gonna be worth it,” he tells Catherine. "What’s the point of anything if you’ve not had something to fight for and—and inspire you? Even if it’s bad for you! What does that matter you can’t live your life avoiding literally every single flaw and bad mistake. You can’t let things be like that. You’ve got to be brave and be out there and follow your heart.”

"What are you... o-on about...”

"What else is going on? There isn't a space where something actually good fits. I'm fucked where I want to be, I'm _completely_ fucked where I don't want to be. And it does have a negative impact on my social life and my workspace and my whole work ethic and it does bleed into all of that. But... But we're all people here! We're all... human beings! Bloody hell, am I really a bad person for believing in myself?"

Presley’s mother is frozen with a half-amused grimace. And she chortles a little helplessly. "…No.”

"Right?" Liam looks at her expectantly, desperately, and riled up on a feeling. On a lot of feelings. And he isn’t quite conscious of the situation he’s created. His heart is pounding and there’s a pressure building at the back of his head like a flowing faucet running out of space to keep the water. But slowly it comes to him. ‘How are you feeling today?’ he reads it again. "Shit.” _What just happened?_

"Mummy, I need crayons. And some pens, too." Presley informs his mother while flipping through his Peppa Pig notebook.

Liam takes off his glasses. "These aren't even prescription."

***

 

They sell pizza at a place called Hot Cakes Forever, with a cartoon pastry of some kind trying to boogie on the restaurant banner. Liam isn't sure what a hot cake is. Either way, they don't even sell any at the restaurant. Only pizza and sandwiches. And meatballs on the weekends.

"Next, please!"

Liam takes his steps forward as he looks up at the menu. Realizing he'd already set his mind while being fourth in line, he quickly draws his gaze to the woman working the cash register. She's a bitter-looking thin girl with an outdated eyebrow piercing and faded red lipstick. The owner's daughter. She has the same rounded skillet face as the man's giant portrait next to the menu just behind her.

"You ready to order?" she asks, trying to keep her annoyance at bay.

"Yeah, sorry. I'd like a medium pizza with pepperoniand uh... all the other meats like sausages, please." But before she can press one of the buttons Liam asks, "What's gluten?"

"Gluten?"

"Yeah. It says gluten-free everywhere in the shop I was... wondering what it was."

And she observes Liam for a moment, eyes him up and down quickly. "It's a topping."

"Is it?"

"It's very good, would you like some?" she smiles.

"What's it like?"

"Comes in slices. It's like a sausage."

"Oh."

"It'll be five pounds extra."

And Liam nods to himself. "Okay." _Why not?_

She stops herself from pressing the button on the cash register to instead send a look Liam's way. "We sell personal pizzas, too."

 _A smaller portion, perhaps?_ "N... No, that's alright."

"Okay." And she promptly drops her fingers down to the register to type away at the receipt. Her nail polish is chipped to just a half centimeter of color on the center of her half-bitten nails. "That comes with two drinks so I'm guessing you'd like just one instead?"

Liam's eyes look beady under the influence of his sudden malaise. "...Yes."

"Okay."

And watching her pressing down buttons on the register, he asks the woman, "Will that come out cheaper? Since it's just one soda."

"No."

"Oh, okay. Sorry."

"Your total is twenty-five pounds and twelve pence."

Liam hurriedly pulls out his wallet, which he regrets not keeping at hand initially. He also regrets buying a twenty-five quid medium pizza for himself. The gluten better taste good. At his tardy the cash register girl narrows her eyes and bites back a gripe, watching him pinch out bills from his plastic wallet. "Here you go, ma'am." Liam hands her fifty quid to avoid digging through his change. Cash register girl gives Liam twenty-four pounds, which he doesn't realize is eighty-eight pence short of what she actually owes him. He's just happy to be free from the stressful confrontation and assume a seat in the restaurant.

There's something deeply humiliating about having a waiter bring you an entire pizza on a serving plate—knife included— and serving it to you at a table booth with not a soul by your side. The pizza is even smaller than Liam dreaded. It's also very green in a moldy kind of way. Eating alone and feeling blue brings back memories of all his birthday parties spent friendless in the aftermath of invitations rejected. Except this time his parents aren't around to share the meal or the tab. Liam is just eating an overpriced and small pizza by himself with a thinner wallet in his pocket. And that's London. And he isn't even that hungry. Stuffing his face doesn't help lift his low spirits, as he had originally planned.

His session with Catherine and Presley ended in the most gentle emotional fatigue— and seems to have stayed that way three whole hours later. Liam figures there's no real fixing that. Like a sinking cake. He has no idea what came over him. Looking back he can't collect a memory. Another patient lost, to contribute to the dwindling clientele Liam so desperately ignores.

A dwindling lifestyle Liam so desperately ignores.

Because Liam brag on about the 10 foot window in his office with a view to the city horizon, without inconvenient mention of the fact the building has yet to be decently remodeled. It's as abandoned looking as it was when it was put up for sale after the bank seized the foreclosed property. Dark brown tile floors, leaky roofs and half-lit hallways are the hallmark of the building. There's mysterious sections sealed away behind newspaper-plastered glass, and office doors that knock back and forth all day without any door handles to keep them in place. When Liam says Croydon, London, people must imagine the posh side. Not West Croydon— the disadvantaged area.

_"This is some... Silent Hill shit, Liam."_

And that was the last time he invited anyone over to have a look at the building. The lift is all mirrors, and half of those reflect your shattered silhouette back to you, while the other half are missing completely. But the real kicker is the scratchy squeak it plays while going up. Liam's been using the stairs ever since the lift gave a six second drop down while going up. He lost a good pair of jeans that day. But he's also lost five pounds, on a more positive note— if Liam dismisses the inconvenient way that really came about.

Two words: sweaty pits. Despite weight loss being a definite pro, the great con of sweating his way up the stairs means Liam has to have a change of clothes by the time he gets up. Every morning you'll see a handsome young man panting his way up six flights of stairs in sweatpants and a tank top while hauling his luxury leather suitcase complete with wheels. But people would have to actually be in the building to see him. Once upstairs, that's when a button down shirt, a pair dress pants, glasses, and the handsome aroma of Tom Ford sprayed to the armpits marks the presence of licensed therapist Dr. James in session— Dr. Payne didn't have the most pleasant ring. And in a spooky building like this, Liam figured that wasn't good for business. Especially when all of his clients are children ages six to thirteen. And speaking of...

The reality is that Liam only makes about £50 per session, and he only has seven clients. Not sixteen. That's about £420 a week, and £1,680 a month. His total month expenses add up to somewhere around £1,660. Money is so tight Liam can hardly breathe anymore. Even West Croydon is proving to be pricey. And the place is crawling with chavs— not exactly the highest demand for a children's counselor. Life on his own isn't as successful as he likes to pretend it is. _Just move out of London. It'll be cheaper._ That would just be the first toppling domino off a list of dreams abandoned. Liam is better off ripping the bandage off all at once and sparing himself the downward spiral— should he decide to remove anything at all. But Liam can't afford to lose another patient.

_"Well... it's all better now. I'm doing well in school. I was doing very poorly. And I was losing my friends because of the ballet stuff. But.. I take away the stuff I like but... I still miss it all quite a lot. Yeah."_

_"So... everyone's more accepting of you ever since you... gave up on... your dreams?"_

_"Things are going well for me now."_

_"Yeah? You don't look well, though."_

"He didn't," he reasons quietly, and takes another slice of pizza. It's the biggest one and the one he'd been avoiding. It drips from the aluminum pan all the way to his ceramic plate where it joins a tiny puddle of orange grease in the very center. He still doesn't know what the gluten is out of the many toppings. But just as Liam is inching that very delicacy rich in saturated fat towards his open mouth, his phone begins to vibrate in his pocket.

"Hm," he grunts as he sets his pizza slice down. Pulling out his phone he reads the caller. "George." And Liam purses his lips worriedly before answering. "Hello?"

"Dr. James?"

"Yes."

"It's George Montero. Bridgite Montero's father. We saw each other earlier this week on Sunday at three o'clock."

Bridgite Montero, his £60 a week patient in need of guidance against school bullies who pick on her because of her weight and unusually hairy body. Her problems started when she hit puberty last year. "Bridgite, yes! Yes, of course. How is she?" She's been a patient of Liam's for roughly five months.

"She's doing quite well. Actually, that's what I'd like to talk to you about."

Liam picks at the cheese on his pizza nervously with his finger. "Oh?"

"We'll be cancelling our appointment for next week."

"Will you be rescheduling?"

"No. We won't be requiring your services anymore."

Liam's face falls as he gives a deeply disappointed frown. His heart sinks even lower. There goes the whip that broke the camel's back. And he hates to admit he isn't even surprised. "That's perfectly fine! Don't you worry." He doesn't wanna be desperate. "Uh... May I ask what... brought you to make this decision?"

And Mr. Montero tells Liam, "We found another psychologist!" like that's not rude. But Liam did ask. "It's much closer, is all. Less traffic. No stairs."

"Of course." Liam doesn't know why he forces that useless smile when there's no one to see it.

"Great! So uh... that's it, innit? I won't need to contact you any further after this."

"No. No you can go about your life however you please."

"That's great! I thought this'd be harder." And George laughs. "You take care, now, James."

Liam does himself a favor and hangs up the second the man gets his name wrong. "James," he scoffs as he picks his pizza back up. But not before mocking, " _Oh I thought this'd be easier_ ," with another begrudged scoff. "Fucking wanker." Liam's long lashes cast a shadow over his eyes as he looks down at his pizza, poking at the juicy cheese grease shining under the lamp light. He's full after just two slices. He should've gotten a personal pizza like they advised him. Liam just isn't the best at judging size. "I fucked up..." Not just about the pizza. Liam officially makes £1,200 against a budget of £1,660. "Okay..." It's not. He always does too much. One miscalculation after the other. It's like he's blind to measurement. Never listens. All Liam really does is try to believe in himself. Maybe that just isn't a notion that suits him. Maybe he's better off being bullied into riding the waves of success with everyone else. Liam doesn't know when to stop, is the problem. By the time he does, he's taken things too far.

_"I'm not very good... Sometimes you've uh... You've got to listen to people, sometimes. I suppose everyone was right about how I shouldn't be a ballerina fairy."_

That would be when the ballerina comes into play— to remind Liam of how incapable he is of seeing things as they are, or so it's been referred to as. It's too easy to remember the rise and the fall of that whole single chapter. It was nothing at all— a fleeting one-time exchange so promising yet ultimately empty that Liam came to stuff it with a world of his own. Because it was there and no one was using it. And he let his imagination run a little too wild. That premise was met with such violent disapproval from the friends and family around him that it practically bruised him with trauma and sent him down an isolating path. The closing footnote to that story being that Liam is capable of being worse at taking things too far than he thought. The lesson everyone brings up. Placing the book back on the shelf was for his own good.

Then why does it feel good to read chapter 1 again, now that he's there?

He's here. Failing, just like they said he would and just as he has in the past. The idea of looking back at failure is that it's supposed to serve as a lesson, and further cement the motivation to overcome the same obstacles. Looking ahead at the reality of being officially poor is a wake up call, alright. But Liam isn't supposed to look back at past failures fondly with a sigh, and miss it as much as he does now. It contradicts the point. _It was a happier time, a simpler time._ It wasn't. It was bad and embarrassing. He's inching his fingers towards a pretty flame that's burnt his skin once, and he's already in a burning building. The far-fetched fantasies, the obsessive infatuation with the imaginary inside of a dusty shell— Liam remembers that but he isn't remembering it the way he should be.

He takes a deep breath and blows slow.

"His name was Harry..."

The magic words spoken. He takes them back immediately, and draws his hand back from the flame.

 

***

 

_**Princess Odette, the White Swan** is the lead ballerina role._

_Odette is often referred to as a "tragic heroine" and is always portrayed as vulnerable, gentle, caring, modest and warm-hearted. She appears in the second and fourth acts, though she also makes a minor appearance in the third act when she appears as a vision during the Ball. As the heroine of the story, she has been transformed into a swan by Von Rothbart and can only regain her human form at night. She has many companions under the same spell, who have made her their queen, hence her title "The Swan Queen." She is forced to live by a lake that was magically formed from the tears of her grieving mother after Rothbart kidnapped her. The only way for the spell to be broken is by the power of eternal love between Odette and a young man who will remain faithful to her, for if the vow of eternal love is broken, she will remain a swan forever._

The ironic thing is that Liam saw Harry as the swan even though he was playing the part of Prince Siegfried in the ballet. Liam was the one who stumbled upon an ethereal being in its magical territory. And he seemed trapped enough. _"I work from 9am to 5pm at a dance company, dancing for my official small part. From 6pm to 11pm, I'm rehearsing here for the main part, which I hope to win back."_ Liam has read over the Wikipedia page for Swan Lake dozens of times and watched the full Swan Lake ballet video on Youtube at least three. He never likes watching the ending so he skips it altogether. He also can't seem to stomach the idea of watching Black Swan ever again. It's a feeling of overprotection; the desperate need to preserve a fragile treasure that threatens to disappear after a single crack blemishes its outside. A fantasy. Liam kept up the charade for a solid six months. That fleeting one-time exchange— he really made use of it. He made a whole mountain out a molehill. A whole damn continent.

"You pretended he was your boyfriend, right? That was the thing?"

Liam’s face drops and he finds himself standing still. He sighs, his grip on his phone tense. And with a pair of socks in his hand he zips up his briefcase and mumbles, “You make it sound like I was a catfish.”

“It was weird,” Niall chuckles too close to his phone and blasts a loud puff through to Liam’s ear. “That was… That was really sad.”

Liam quickly rubs at his achey ear and places his phone back to answer. “It was a fucking joke.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It was like, roleplaying. That's it! I wasn’t delusional,” he defends himself as he takes a seat on his waiting room's couch.

"Just say you were pretending."

"I mean I was, yeah."

"You know what I mean.”

“You all make it out like it was some big deal."

“We thought he was real!” Niall laughs through the phone. “What did you expect.”

"He _was_ real... Alright?"

Harry: the famed ballet dancer whose affections Liam bragged about having conquered around the time he took up an internship at a public hospital. Liam and him met every day at the dance studio in Niall’s ex ex girlfriend Laura’s university. Once Harry won back his role as principal dancer in Swan Lake he didn’t have to dance two routines anymore, and therefore didn’t have to visit that little dance studio. That was when they officially exchanged numbers— after Harry replaced his broken phone of course. And Liam came to know him as Harry Something-He-Forgot, principal dancer at The Royal Ballet company. He had a Wikipedia page, and Youtube videos. And a mini documentary. And he would text Liam photos of his ugly feet, and sneak him into rehearsals so he could watch the company dance from a dark corner. Liam bragged and bragged to everyone working at the mental health clinic for children and adolescents— where he took up an internship as a psychologist last year. Every day. And Harry was a bit of a mascot, and he got to be notorious among staff.

_“How’s the swan prince?”_

_"Can you show us a video of your ballerina boyfriend?"_

But Liam never showed them a video. Because they never existed. He never got Harry's number. He doesn’t know if he ever got the role for Swan Lake. Harry Something-He-Forgot is actually Harry Something-He-Never-Told-Liam. There was an empty silhouette and Liam added strings and made him dance. That didn't sound as pathetic as it did at first. Because Liam didn’t mean for it to go so far. His internship was only for a few months and the staff seemed small enough. He just wanted to act out on a fantasy for a little while in an environment he knew would keep his stories contained. It was fun— an exercise in affection, in blissful pretend manifested so strongly it was almost nostalgic of his childhood. Liam never felt so in love with someone so imaginary. He tried his best to keep it all contained.

_“Promise you won’t tell anyone, alright?”_

That must've been a phrase repeated all throughout the hospital until it got to a mutual family friend and spread across the land— prior to Liam actually admitting Harry wasn't really his boyfriend. Once word of that got out, people didn't care to pretend no one at the hospital ever broke their promise. It was so shocking and absurd— Liam's ballerina boyfriend never _existed_. He made it all _up_. It was then that Liam realized his other secret had come to life. Regarding an attraction to men. That was the real kicker, the real lump that held still and grew in his throat. Liam wasn't ready for that to come to light. He's been desperately trying to shove it back into the black hole where he kept it all ever since. Maybe that's why he wanted to move away to London and open up a private practice so desperately. There was a job at the hospital with a set salary he rejected like an idiot, all because of his embarrassment. The art of running away, and redeeming himself as a successful human being. He failed at that, too.

Liam's face turns so red he has to frown. "Fucking embarrassing. Talk about a low point."

"I thought you 'repressed' that and... all that," he giggles, knowing Liam is probably embarrassed from wherever he is on the other side of the phone line. "Why are you randomly thinking about it again?

He is. Quietly from the inside of his cheap office as he dresses down from his dress shirt and pants. Liam pinches his phone against his ear with his shoulder and bends over to slide on his chunky white socks, after taking off the fancy black ones. His heart is beating faster, making him just a little nauseous in his chest. And that's humiliation. Liam knows it well. "No reason." Of course he lies, looking into the walls of his dimly lit hallway. He looks over to his bag, where he's stuffed it to a bulging point with things he doesn't need to take home. But he won't be needing them for his office anymore either.

"You okay?"

Liam spent so much time decorating the waiting room. There's a floral couch his grandmother spared him and some fashion magazines he secretly took from his mother's mailbox. The room also has some toys and a children's table perfect for coloring and reading. Those are from an old hoarder woman on Craigslist reluctantly selling off her belongings by order of the state department. The toys and desk belonged to her pediatrician husband who died in 1974. Liam got a great deal on those. After five bottles of Lysol they were good as new. Really keeps the kids at bay while waiting. They especially liked looking at the bizarre 1950's drawings that mark the table.

"I need to trim my toenails..."

"What?"

"I think I'm gonna quit being a counselor."

"Oh."

Liam's brow is tense, his bottom lip coming under his teeth as he listens to Niall sigh through the phone. He wants him to say something dramatic. Maybe lament the death of his dream.

"Well, finally!"

Liam didn’t expect that. He finishes yanking up his socks before muttering "Why the fuck 'finally'?" Although he knows. It just isn’t often they call the elephant in the room by its name.

"Uh... it's a stupid job." Just plain fact as far as he's concerned. "Sorry. That's just what I think."

Liam huffs dryly. “You think helping kids is a stupid job, yeah?"

"Come on, Liam, you're not saving lives here.” Niall doesn’t sound bothered to be saying it, and that’s saying a lot. He hates confrontation. The fact he goes on about implying Liam is a bit of a failure must be a breezy topic for him. Like it’s frequently discussed. “Isn't that the whole point of counseling is that you're not actually doing anything serious?" The kindergarten decorations in Liam's office doesn't leave much room for arguing against that. "I told you to change majors. Didn't I tell you to change majors? You literally took counseling because it was easier than actual psychology."

"I did not!"

"You're such a liar."

"Nialler the liar calling me a liar... That's just great."

"Am I lying now, though?"

"I like how you're actually in my brain. That's very clever. Thank you for knowing more about me than I do, Niall. Thank you so much."

"What does it matter? You're already quitting."

Liam stops himself from objecting because he realizes he can’t all the way. He did say that. Although technically, "I said I'm thinking about it."

"For fuck's sake."

Liam remembers to grab his sneakers. Just beside the couch, too. And he goes back to holding his phone in place with his shoulder while his hands tend to his feet. He’d rather his mind be a little occupied. Just a little. He's so miserable.

"What are you planning? I mean what are you thinking about?"

Regarding his future, he figures. "I don't know.” And he catches himself pausing, reluctantly admitting for the first time, “I just..." At least he tries.

"What?"

There's a mess of a day that's brought all of this on. And Liam hates feeling so foolish all the time. It's tiring being laughed at and reminded of his failures. "I keep losing clients and I don't even know if I'm gonna like, make enough money for rent next month." It’s so fresh on his mind he isn’t even concerned about it. Like it’s still digesting; so heavy.

"You need me to lend you money?"

"No."

"If you need any, just ask."

"No, it's okay.” Liam’s feet are now snug in his Nike sneakers, and all laced up too. He tells Niall, “Thanks, though,” for the offer and gets up on his feet. Turning off the lamp to his waiting room, Liam leisurely walks out his office with his wheeled leather bag in his hand. Out in the hallway he locks the door and heads on out to the stairs.

"Listen, uh…”

“Yeah?”

“My cousin,” Niall starts. Like he’s getting onto something.

Liam's back begins to bang and crash against each step as he pulls it down behind him down the first flight of stairs. “What about your cousin?”

“Yeah, he offered me a job last month back home in Ireland. It pays really good. I would've taken it but I'm actually just... not cut out for the job, to be honest. But if you want I could check if the offer's still up. Maybe he could hire you."

 _Oh shit, he’s offering me a job._ Liam’s eyebrows give a hop, and he gives a soft nod to himself. "What's the job?"

"Uh, it's tech-y but I think you're gonna like it. It's at a venue, it's a set salary."

"What is it?"

"Sound technician."

"Sound technician…” According to Prospects.ac.uk, 'Sound technicians are required to assemble, operate and maintain the technical equipment used to record, amplify, enhance, mix or reproduce sound. They identify the sound requirements for a given task or situation and perform the appropriate actions to produce this sound.' But Liam knows that perfectly well. He's read that.

"I was looking it up. It's like £40,000 to £100,000 a year."

"Oh shit. Wow. That is…That is a lot of cash.”

"How much are you making now? A year."

"Like..." And Liam grimaces as he says, "Like twenty.” £20,000 a year. “It’ll be less now cos I lost another patient today."

"Jesus."

"It's not that bad."

"Are you kidding? That's fucking terrible, bro. You could be doing so much better. You ought to be. You're smart, you're talented. Don't waste it all working at Silent Hill teaching kids shit they’ve already got parents for— and not getting paid shit to do it. Jesus Christ. Twenty-thousand a year..."

" _Twenty-tousand_..." he gently mocks Niall's accent. Liam wants to object and defend his field of work. No one understands child counseling. It’s frustrating to hear it be dismissed so often. But for the first time he finds himself biting his tongue. _Let me just not say anything. Let’s see what happens._ Niall is usually never this straight forward. Their roles feel reversed today. Liam feels uncharacteristically small in a space where he’s usually got his chest puffed out strong. “You’re really rubbing it in today." And he’s not even mad about it.

"You deserve to make a good living.”

Comfort; encouragement, validation. Liam wants to feel better about giving up even though he hasn’t yet. Almost like he wants to know how it feels first. Receiving a job offer wasn’t part of his plan. Now it all feels different. It feels real and banging at the door and telling him to _let it in_.

“You're smart, you work your fucking ass off at everything you do and you deserve to have that pay off. This counselor shit just isn't for you. I know you think it is but trust me it isn't. Your heart is in the right place, okay, I get that. But think of how you're gonna survive in this world. You're not going to the way you're going about your fucking career, okay?"

"Alright alright..." Liam sighs, reaching his hand under his beanie to scratch at his hairline. A smart, hard worker—he needed to be assured of that. Liam thinks he's a good guy, too. Never slacks. Always goes 100% and beyond. That’s just more troubling than he realizes.

"Want me to call my cousin up?"

"Not now." For someone so impulsive he’s really not trying to think of anything concrete with this.

"Yeah but do you want me to? Like when I get home?"

"I mean no rush, you know.” Liam moves out of the kitchen and heads towards the front door of his flat. “I’ll think about it. Where are you?"

“Taking a shit at Subway."

“Oh.”

“I’m kidding. I'll give my cousin a ring for you, okay? Let's hope the offer's still up. You used to want to be a music technician, remember? In high school? You were always messing with the equipment, being a DJ and shit!" Niall is being encouraging and Liam appreciates it.

"We'll see.” he smiles. “Everything's really gone to shit, mate.” And he didn’t mean to say that out loud.

"It'll get better. Don't worry about it."

"Listen, I’m going out for a jog."

"What? A jog?"

"I'm literally standing by the door.” But he's really heading to his now unlocked car to pack up his bag. In his hoodie, beanie, thick sweatpants, and sneakers. “I was on my way out,” he chuckles.

"Oh! Oh, okay. I'll talk to you later."

"Alright. Bye."

Liam can hear the sound of a toilet flushing before Niall proclaims, "Bye," and hangs up.

A jog would come in nicely, he admits. His heart pumping, his legs aching, his brain focused on timers and pacing. No ballerinas or Presleys or pizzas. As Liam packs up his business bag in the trunk of his car he realizes that the way he's dressed, he really could go out for a jog. He'd be crazy to jog at night where he actually lives:

_Slough._

He shivers. "Okay." And he closes the trunk, locks his car with the press of a button. Looking out into the street he calculates his route through West Croydon. Once decided, he pops in his headphones and goes about a decided hour-long route around the block. Late November weather at 7pm keeps Liam exerting his body in a cool 8°C surrounding. This is nice. He needed this. No soul around to influence his self esteem. Quarantine.

It's funny, he thinks. How so much of what he'd been striving for seems to be on its way out. In his bag he carried all of his case files, along with as much of his office as he could fit as a parting goodbye. That was a strange feeling. He's closing practice for good. _Did I really go to uni for nothing?_ No, he has to really think this sound technician thing through. There's a bachelor's degree he has to put to use. But at £1,200 a month, can he really afford to anymore? Dreams are expensive and his degree doesn't hold a ticket to any prosperous road. He wonders if the mention of ballet will have its same effect in Ireland. Like great reception.

"Harry..." Liam huffs out hard, his feet gently patting on the damp asphalt as he jogs on. "Harry, Harry, Harry..." Who was he? Now he has to sweep that memory back out the window. It makes him cringe. Makes him frown and shake his head. There's a lot he has to move on from. Liam regrets the change. Though he knows he should be grateful. “Imaginary ballerina boyfriend… Really outdid yourself there, Liam…” he scolds himself through jagged breaths, and finds himself running faster through the darkness. He pulls out his phone and checks the time. “7:42pm.” Twenty minutes down, forty more to go.

But as Liam reaches to put his phone back in his pocket, it slips from his grip and falls to the ground.

“Fuck!”

There was a terrible crash.

“No no nono!” Liam cries out as he runs back and bends down to retrieve the pieces of his phone. Pieces. “Fuck!” He should’ve replaced the broken case like he was supposed to. The backwards swing of his arm sent the phone flying. The cover popped right out and the battery went its own wayward way. After pulling out his headphones Liam has to easter egg hunt in the poorly-lit street for all three parts. But once they’re found and the gravel has been dusted away by his chilly fingertips, Liam lets out another frustrated cry at what’s been made of his now re-assembled phone.

The screen is completely shattered.

“Please please.”

It won’t even turn on. Liam makes the distance to the next light post on the street to take a better look. Snowflaked glass; shattered so densely it looks white. Liam’s brown eyes look black under the shadow cast by his lashes, his furrowed brow. Looking down with a solemn expression. Under the light the glass sparkles in a complicated, pretty pattern as Liam flips it around, pressing the lock button over and over. He tries to swipe his thumb over the screen, but when he does the glass slices right over his finger. “Ah!” he hisses, and quickly pops it in his mouth after catching sight of the blood.

_Hey, this is just like when…_

Liam quickly shoves his phone back in his pocket. And he stands there in the 7°C weather, under the street light, sucking his thumb. Around him he can see he’s on Ruskin Road around what seems to be housing buildings. _Shall I keep jogging?_ He can’t keep track of time, or contact anyone if he’s in trouble. Another look taken at his thumb, and Liam is confused to see the skin is completely smooth. But watching a bit longer he sees a single drop of blood grow from seemingly nowhere. But a quick squeeze pushes blood out from a gash one inch across. Liam scowls. Back in his mouth it goes.

_But the guy seems easygoing, thumb in his mouth as he chuckles to keep the conversation from getting awkward. He pulls his thumb back again and takes another look. "Cut my thumb." He tells Liam, showing him his thumb before stepping closer to him, showing him his phone so he can see the blood running through the cracks. "When I tried to answer my phone, my thumb just went... straight across the glass."_

_Liam grimaces. "Ow."_

_"No, it's not so bad. I'm alright. I guess I just can't answer anyone. Um..." He places his phone back on the chair and stands back, running his fingers through his hair to push it back. It's curly, resting a couple of inches down his shoulders. "What are you doing here?" He asks. "...Did you want something?"_

“Excuse me, sir.”

Liam blinks down to find an elderly Asian couple standing before him. A man and a woman, both dressed in luxury gowns that could only be for a fancy event. Liam doesn’t have to guess to know they’re lost. No one dressed like that has any business being in a quiet neighborhood like this. Liam can already guess they’re late for whatever that event may be. “Mm?” And Liam rolls his eyes as he pulls his thumb out of his mouth. “Sorry,” he giggles. “Can I help you?”

The elderly woman gives a small bow as she walks over with a paper in her hand. Her hair is grey and tied upwards in some kind of beehive. Her coat is dark navy blue, and under it Liam can see the bottom half of a deep purple silk gown. Once at Liam’s side she holds up the paper close to his face. It’s an invitation card. She points her perfectly groomed nail at the location.

“The Royal Opera House?" Liam reads. "7:30pm" At the bottom.

“We are late,” she tells him in a thick-cut accent. Her husband stands by with his hands in his pockets, a tired glaze in his eyes. They seem to be closing.

Liam assumes they’re looking for directions. And are very lost. The Royal Opera House would be in central London— a whole hour away. _Why aren't they in a car?_ he wonders. _What are they doing out here?_ He can't help but look around the street. _The fuck did they even come from?_ "Uh..." Liam tries to imagine a map around him, calculating a route that will get this couple out of this place and to their fancy event— whatever it is. A glance down at his watch's compass helps show him where north is. Once there, he bends himself down a little so he's at face level with the woman as expresses his directions carefully, "The Royal Opera House is that way. One hour away!" Although on foot, who knows? "You'll want to take this road all the way up north, alright?"

The woman listens keenly, while her husband keeps his head down under the street light for a small nap.

"You're going to get to Tamworth Road. That goes two ways, like this." Liam brings his wrists together and bends both his hands back to make a horizontal line, and shows it to the woman. "You go left, alright?" And he shakes his _left_ hand.

She smiles and nods all the same, and Liam wonders if she really understands. She's so old.

"And then you take the whole road down. All the way down."

She nods.

"And then uh... Then there's uh..." Liam shuts his eyes turns his head up to think about where that road leads. He doesn't stray from his usal route enough to know directions well. Although he's been to The Royal Opera House before. Once. He pays over two-hundred pounds on gas a month just going back and forth from his office to his flat. So he thinks and he thinks, desperate to help this innocent elderly couple who seem very late and very nicely dressed for an event they may even miss entirely. Liam opens his eyes and brings his head down. "Okay, I think you have to go t—"

The couple is gone.

Liam looks down the street. There they are, idly walking away as they chat down the road. In the opposite direction Liam told them. And he's very worried. He walks over to them and calls out, "Hey!" But they don't hear him. A quick jog closer and Liam can hear them speaking. They're Japanese, he realizes. And immediately he feels a tiny bell go off in his head. A good bell.

" _Excuse me!_ " Liam calls out in Japanese. Immediately the tiny couple turn around, shocked to find only a white man behind them. They mumble to each other before the woman calls out,

" _Was that you?!_ " with the complementary finger pointing. She isn't too loud about it, seeming cautious and wary. Her husband besides her looks around in every direction.

Liam grins, knowing they can understand him. " _Yes!_ " In Japanese again. " _Are you lost?!_ "

The couple look to each other and cheer, huddling closer before walking back towards Liam. They must not have thought he was of any help when he was giving directions. Liam digresses. He eagerly walks their way, ready to help.

" _You speak Japanese?_ " the woman asks him with a smile.

" _A little!_ Uh... _conversational Japanese._ "

The couple smile gleefully, delighted and amused they stumbled upon a white man who speaks decent Japanese. The man nudges his wife excitedly, and proclaims, " _See Eriko? Next time don't be so shy. Had it not been for me, you would have never stopped for directions!_ "

But his wife ignores him and tells Liam, " _We're very lost. We only arrived yesterday and we don't know where anything is._ "

" _Are you travelling_ uh... _without car?_ " That seems remarkable.

" _The taxi dropped us off at a theater, but it was closed! It must have been the wrong one. Our granddaughter is in a ballet. We're so late already._ "

 _Fucking ballet_ , he thinks. _What is with today?_

_"Where is The Royal Opera House?"_

Eriko must not have understood Liam the first time. He assumes they came from Japan to England just to watch their granddaughter. And they're too vulnerable in those nice costumes, in this weather, at their age. So he promptly offers, " _I know where the ballet theater is. I take you there?_ "

They both yelp with big smiles. " _Oh, we would be so grateful! That would really help us so much._ "

Liam smiles back. It's a great experience, helping a foreign couple and taking them to a fancy ballet in time. " _My car is_ uh... _back there. In my_ uh... _apartment. You wait here?_ " Under the street light. That would be perfect. The couple nod at Liam's plan, and he quickly races back to his office to retrieve his car. Twenty minutes jogging is about twelve running— noted.

Liam is relieved to find them safe when he drives his car to their location. He gives the horn a quick little honk before getting out and helping them into his car by the hand. The woman gets to sit in the front. Her husband is fine with the arrangement, as he's decided to lie down on his back in the backseat.

" _How do you know Japanese? You speak so well!_ " the elderly woman, Eriko, asks keenly once she's finished checking her appearance in the rearview mirror. She places it back, but in the wrong position.

Liam struggles to readjust it again. "Uh..." And he laughs to himself, shaking his head. " _My girlfriend. Yeah. I learn for her._ "

" _Really?_ "

" _What's her name?_ " the husband asks from the backseat. His voice is hoarse like it's scraping at the bottom of a barrel.

" _Amina_ ," Liam says plainly. " _Amina-chan._ " And hesitates a bit before narrating, " _I met her in... high school. She walked up to me at the school gates. The most popular girl in school._ " It was the first day. She has 80's style hair that fluffs up at her shoulders, and a nicely fitted school uniform that hugs her curves.

"Ah."

Liam finds it hard to drive as he translates thoughts as they come ot his head, and then tries to phrase it as best as he can. " _She didn't like me at first. But she does now. We're dating. We go on many dates._ " To the park, to the movies. She'll come over to his parents house and they'll have a good time. Although, sometimes he'll say the wrong thing and the night will amount to nothing at all. Such a waste of time when that happens. He never mentions Amina to anyone. He'd be crazy to do that. " _I didn't understand her at first. But I had the time. So I thought, I will learn. And I did!_ " Liam is very proud of himself for that. The couple give their approving ooh's and ah's.

" _How thoughtful of you! Shoji, if I was a foreign girl, would you learn my language for me?_ "

" _I would never have talked to you._ "

" _But I'm so beautiful_."

" _Yes, and I would have been too busy training to study for you._ "

She rolls her eyes and shifts in her seat. " _He was a wrestler,_ " she tells Liam, half bragging.

" _Cool!_ " he exclaims.

And the old man laments from the backseat, " _I'm so skinny now._ "

" _But you're still handsome and healthy!_ "

" _Thank you, Eriko._ "

Liam smiles at their displays of affection. " _How long_ uh... _have you marry?_ "

" _Sixty years._ "

" _Wow! Cool, cool._ " While they talk on, Liam realizes they've made it to a familiar street he knows is close to central London. At night, he figures, the lack of traffic makes it an even shorter drive. He looks at the clock. 7:59pm. He needs to drive faster.

" _We had three daughters, but they all died in a car accident._ "

Maybe he'll stay driving slow. "Oh no. Oh God, I'm so sorry." Liam forgets to say it in Japanese.

" _The eldest, she had a baby. We kept her. She's like a daughter to us,_ " Shoji tells Liam. " _She's a sweet thing. But feisty when she's hungry. You really have to feed that girl well._ "

" _It's because she needs energy._ "

" _She's like me. Strong like me,_ " the old man proclaims proudly.

And Liam asks, " _She is the ballet dancer?_ "

" _Yes! Her name is Minami. She is so talented and famous. We love seeing her dance! We're just so happy to see her dance. I hope we make it in time._ "

" _You will be late but... you will be there!_ " Liam assures them. "I promise." Now it's a promise. He made it in English in case he ends up failing.

" _Okay._ "

" _What is the show?_ Uh... _the ballet name?_ "

" _The Sugar Plum... Fairy, is it?_ " Eriko confers with her husband.

" _No it's..._ "

" _The Nutcracker._ "

Liam nods. How classic. " _What is her part?_ " he asks Shoji as he looks through his rearview mirror. Still crooked. Can't even see the window.

" _The girl. Clara. That's the leading role. She dances with the Nutcracker._ "

Principal dancer, then. Liam wonders if the girls have the same role. He wonders if this Minami was born here, or came to live here for ballet, or is some kind of guest. But somehow, familiarizing himself with ballet is making him uneasy. Mostly because of how eager he is to talk about it. He wishes his Japanese were better. He might take up proper lessons after this " _Good for her._ "

" _Have you seen the show?_ "

" _No..._ " Liam tells them quietly, trying to push back any troubling memories of leotards and dimples. " _Unfortunate._ "

From the backseat Shoji asks, " _Are we there yet?_ " And he sounds a little annoyed.

" _Almost. Yes._ " It's so empty Liam decides he can afford to go just a bit beyond the speed limit. _You're going to kill someone, idiot._ And remembering that his passengers' children died in a car crash, he slows down again. They're riding along quietly for some time when Liam suddenly feels a little poke at his side. He looks to his right and sees that the old woman has her body hunched and a mischievous grin on her face, the drapes of skin coiling in a dense pattern. She puts her finger to her lips for a silent 'shhhh' and sneaks Liam a piece of paper on his lap.

" _Oh, look, Shoji! The boy has a ticket to see the ballet!_ "

Liam's eyes go wide. "What?"

" _You didn't give him the ticket for Minami's boyfriend, did you?_ "

" _Of course not, dear,_ " Eriko lies as she snickers quietly with Liam.

" _You know those seats have numbers, right? If he sits next to us I'll know it was Joshua's._ "

Joshua. So Minami's boyfriend isn't Japanese.

" _He's not her boyfriend._ "

So Minami's not-boyfriend isn't Japanese. There seems to be some confusion— or unwillingness to accept reality. It could go either way when it comes to the elderly. The couple go on bickering in their tired old voices, and Liam takes a look down at the ticket once he reaches a red light.

**The Nutcracker**

Wednesday  
23 November 2016  
7:30 PM

Full Price  
£140.00

Liam silently gasps at the price to amuse himself with dramatics. He realizes the light turns green and goes on driving. And he begins to smile to himself, just a bit.

_"I'm waiting for... an opportunity."_

_"An opportunity?"_

_"I'm waiting to disappoint everybody."_

Suddenly the dread that brought his heart to beat fast has been replaced with adrenaline. _I'm gonna see a real ballet. A proper ballet. The **Nutcracker**._ But he isn't thinking about Harry right now. Not at all. And that seems promising, except that he wants to think about him all over again. In front of him he reads the signs to roads and attractions ahead. "The Royal Opera House," he reads with a grin, and makes a quick turn. Eriko and Shoji go on arguing about Minami's alleged boyfriend, so he decides he'll leave their arrival a surprise once he pulls up at the entrance. Traffic has picked up around the area as Liam makes it closer to the theater.

" _Shoji, look!_ " The elderly woman yelps before Liam has the opportunity to surprise her.

" _This is it, right?_ "

" _Yes._ "

" _Shoji, we're here! Fix yourself up!_ "

" _Wow!_ "

It's beautiful. Liam's seen it before, but it's not any less pretty the second time. A white, tall and solid stone work of art, with six giant columns decorating the front starting at the second floor and reaching all the way to the top of the building. The _Royal_ Opera House— of course. Only London could have commissioned something so beautiful. Liam can't wait to be inside. There's a bit of traffic there on Bow Street already so they've slowed down a little. The Japanese couple marvel excitedly at the sight as they look out the window of Liam's car. Knowing parking is on another street entirely, Liam keeps his eyes out for the upcoming exit he's looking to take.

" _Thank you!_ " Shoji announces as presses his nose to the glass. Their journey was a success. And it's all thanks to Liam. They won't let him forget. Liam feels that same great feeling in his belly. " _What's your name?_ "

Funny how they're asking now. But his name will be so hard to pronounce. And he cringes a little. "Uh... Liam," he says in English.

Eriko and Shoji stay quiet. Until one of them whispers,

" _That's a terrible name..._ "

 

***

 

Liam really, really, really regrets changing into sweatpants before leaving his office. He should've thought about the dress code when he accepted the invitation to the ballet from the elderly Japanese couple. While the theater lobby and consecutive halls are empty, Liam still feels lost and with no place surrounded by the beautiful architecture, the decor. Gilded brass, period paintings and marble busts. The building really lives up to its name. Removing his beanie didn't help any. It just introduced the matted mess of his hair. There's the occasional guest passing by, presumably on a bathroom break, and they shoot Liam puzzled snorts or wide-eyed glares. Shoji and Eriko don't seem to mind. They're a very quiet and efficient couple, making sure to keep distractions to a minimum as they focus on arriving to the room in time.

Once they do, Liam is stunned by the dark, vast theater _roaring_ with a classical symphony. Four balconies tower on either side of the stage— where the show most certainly plays. The set shows a beautiful winter pine forest, with white and blue lights pointing to the stage. From afar Liam can see dozens of tutu-clad ballerinas dancing across the platform. His heart drops down to his stomach, and he finds himself moving backwards.

"Bad idea bad idea..."

And he's so embarrassed to be here. He can't be. Eriko and Shoji have to grab him by the hand and drag him down the aisle to their seats. Sitting down near the very front row served to tighten Liam's nerves to more unkind confinements. Mostly as a dwindling self esteem— not necessarily a bad thing. The humiliation of wearing sweatpants to a beautiful theater while being so close to the magical, musical display suddenly makes for a more spectacular experience. What a bad decision he's made. What a terribly bad decision. It's overwhelming once he becomes hopelessly engrossed in that world. Butterflies fluttering aimlessly in his chest as he witnesses the beautiful and breathtaking display. To behold.

Ballet.

A magical symphony plays in presto as dozens of ballerinas hop and twirl around the stage in circles and springs and drops to the ground— Waltz of the Snowflakes. The snowflake girls are all dressed in white pearly dresses that float down their knees, with white wigs, and white tights, and sparkly crowns atop their tiny heads. Weightless as they jump and dance across the stage. A choir comes in as two snowflakes take center stage to lead the other ones into a new routine. Kaleidoscoping in synch until they come together to form three rows. And from there they lift their legs up, and spin, and spin. The orchestra's harp player lets three streams of sound burst through the room and the snowflakes skip to each one. They pirouette in place over and over and over again.

Until the music stops.

The snowflakes fall and tuck themselves flat against the floor. The light narrows down to a single spotlight. And a couple is revealed, the music slowly returning in a sweeter, softer tune. Wind instruments, and sleighbells, and a heavenly choir.

" _That's Clara. That's Minami,_ " Eriko nudges Liam excitedly.

Clara in her white flowy dress resembling a vintage nightgown, her hair tied up into a bun with a blue ribbon. Her and her partner look at each other with love in their eyes, embraced as they stand in the enchanted forest. It has to be her prince beside her. The Nutcracker Prince. He presents her the world around her and she hops away excitedly to explore. The snowflakes depart in a row of tiny hops and disappear behind the trees. Liam lifts his head up to see where they go, and Clara seems to share the sentiment. He smiles when she chases after them, and with a glance at her prince she imitates their dance. He goes after her with a smile, and on one knee presents her with a magic wand. She takes it in a gentle swish and spins away.

The music quiets down until it's only the choir Clara dances to. That heavenly carol. Smooth like a flow of water; she twirls on her very tip toes and waves the wand, enamored in some profound way by more than Liam can really imagine would be written in a script. _How does that work?_ he wonders. Like a real doll, a real toy— fantasy. Liam's brow comes together, his eyes dark and wide as he looks up at the stage. _Could they ever look down? Would they see me?_ He smiles when the Nutcracker Princes comes up behind her, in his red jacket and bright white tights. He holds her hand as she lifts her leg up in the air and stands on just one toe, bending it backwards and sustained in the air around his body while he carefully spins her himself like if he were winding a music box. And then she bends herself backwards until she's in his arms. The Nutcracker Prince lifts her into the air spins with her while trumpets play and the symphony moves them along.

"Wow..." he says without realizing. This is more than he could've ever expected within the limits of his imagination. He feels like he's looking into a magical world, not some show. He's speechless and cold and small in every sense. Sitting up in his seat and leaned forward with child-like absorption. And it's a feeling that takes him back to a place he's never been. This is the bad decision. This is the flame he shouldn't have touched. Like all he wants to do is close his eyes and forget he's anybody, or wish he was something else entirely. One of those dozen spinning snowflakes, or a nutcracker prince in a bright red jacket and white tights. Or maybe, the girl spinning in that very nutcracker prince's arms. He's so handsome. And he's got dimples, just like Harry. "How 'bout that..."

 

***

 

"Oh God. _Are you sure..._ uh... _we can....backstage?_ "

" _Minami says it's alright!_ "

" _We just have to be sneaky._ "

" _We want you to meet her._ "

They're hardly sneaky at all. Among the sea of dainty ballet dancers is a tiny elderly couple in formal attire at either side of a tall, sweats-clad Liam. The old man is giggling over all the pretty girls. Though, there are crew members of all kinds, too. Backstage is fairly peaceful despite the busy crowd. Everyone is all smiles and laughs, basking in the glory of the successful show. Ballet dancers are so quiet, Liam notices. And seem to have a habit of moving around just as daintily as they do on stage. Everyone spared either confused or amused glances Liam's way. Shoji and Eriko seemed to like the attention. Liam was just red in the face.

" _Close your eyes. This is the girl's dressing room._ "

Liam slaps his hands over his eyes just in case as they enter a much more quiet environment. It smells like perfume and talc powder. Very sweet. Fruity. _What about Shoji?_ he would ask. But he figures a profoundly wrinkled and somewhat hunchbacked old man won't be too threatening. So old and freckly he looks more like a folklore creature in his little suit. The idea of meeting Minami is nice. Liam feels himself already a big fan of hers after watching her perform in such a phenomenal show. Eriko and Shoji have every reason to brag. Maybe that's why they're taking him to her dressing room. He hopes it won't be for long. The parking fee is no joke.

" _Nami-chan~_ "

" _You guys!_ " That's her. Her voice is sweet but solid like hard candy, with a moderate and confident Japanese accent. Her grandparents gush over her performance in their native tongue, but she interrupts. " _Who's this?_ "

"Hello!" Liam says with his hands over his eyes. "Sorry, your grandparents insisted I come. I can leave if you like."

"No, that's okay! Um..." And she hushes her voice down to ask in Japanese. " _Grandma, who is he?_ "

Liam chuckles to himself, knowing his proficiency in Japanese allows him to eavesdrop without Minami having any idea.

" _Nami-chan, we got lost and we almost didn't make it._ "

" _Well why didn't you call me? I would've called someone for you. You know you don't speak English very well._ "

"We asked for a taxi but it took us to a completely different part of England. We ran into this boy and he gave us a ride here in his car!"

Minami tells Liam in English, "My grandparents say you gave them a ride here to see the ballet."

"Yes! I did."

"Thank you! I can't imagine them being out there alone at night, all by themselves. I can't thank you enough."

"It's no trouble, really. They walked right up to me and they were miles away from where they needed to be. I would've called an—"

"You can open your eyes," Minami giggles.

Liam brings down his hand and smiles when he sees Minami. "Hello!" She's very pretty, with sparkly makeup on her hooded monolids and cherry red lipgloss on her lips, luscious and pouty with the top coming over the bottom one. Behind her Liam can see the dressing room. It's a spacious place with rows of tables lined up with mirrors, and chairs for each dancer. Makeup, duffel bags, costumes, warm yellow lights and faint girlish chatter. There's only a handful of girls in the room, and a guy in the back washing something by the sinks. Liam finds his footing again as he blinks his attention back to Minami. "Like I said, I would've called them an uber but my phone got busted like, seconds before they came up to me."

"Oh no!"

"Yeah! But I didn't mind taking them. It was no trouble. Your grandparents are lovely."

"Thank you. How did your phone break? I bet it was an iPhone..." Minami is one of _those_ people.

"Nope. Samsung."

She frowns playfully. "No way! It must be an old model."

"No, check it out." Liam starts looking in his pockets for his phone, eager to show off the incredible damage done to it. And to himself, too. He has yet to see it under good lighting. But before he can pull his phone of his pocket, Liam suddenly hears someone whisper,

"I left your makeup bag by your things~" A man.

"Thanks~" Minami whispers back.

And it's beside her Liam sees. His face freezes; stunned. The ticket he held in his hand is crushed by the sudden and uncontrollable clenching of his fist that he doesn't even realize. Because Liam sees the unexpected. The heartstopping. The overwhelming.

It's Harry.

In white tights and a red military-style classic jacket. His short hair— his _short_ hair, his _short_ hair— combed back under gel and hairspray. It was him— he was the Nutcracker Prince on stage. And now he's Harry, mumbling something Minami's way about tonight's show. He seems to be in a hurry to get away, maybe because he doesn't want to interrupt her conversation with her grandparents. Before he goes— ever so polite— he shyly excuses himself from Minami's grandparents, "Excuse me." And then Liam, "Sorry. Have a good night."

And he stops. Liam doesn't know what his face is doing. But it must've been funny, because Harry's brow comes together deep and quick, before his face blooms with a goofy grin and finger waved at him. The one that says, 'Hey, I know you.' Before he walks away. Hesitantly, with an awkward falter in his step.

 _Oh God, like he didn't want to. Did he want to talk to me?_ Liam shoots a look back over his shoulder with hard breaths blown through his nose as he watches Harry disappear from the dressing room. _He remembered me._ His heart is racing, a smile plastered stupidly across his face. Shoji gives him a poke as he laughs, "Hey, what's wrong with you?" But Liam can't entertain it. He feels like a car revving it's engine at the starting line and he's waiting for someone to tell him go. But what he needs is for someone to tell him to stop. _Don't go after him. Don't do it._

"Sorry, I have to go! Emergency. Bye bye!" A wave to them all before he runs away, leaving Minami to translate to her grandparents her own confusion with Liam's mysterious and sudden departure.

Liam is definitely chasing after Harry. This is horrible. That has to be creepy and obsessive. With a frown he stops himself dead in his tracks and lets out a frustrated whine. _Just leave it alone. Stop_ , he tells himself. To have control no matter how much he wants to keep going and act out some contrived fantasy— the chase, the reunion, the carriage ride into the sunset. It's embarrassing that he's admittedly thinking in such outlandish logic because he knows better. He's a grown man. He's a psychologist. He isn't creepy. "No, no." He shakes his head. He won't be disappointed. He looks up again at the now empty direction Harry was just pacing in.

 _Well, there he goes. Don't think about it._ This is what he gets for watching ballet. Impulsive and stupid. And he straightens himself, fixes himself a bit. Liam doesn't want to go back to the elderly couple and their ballerina granddaughter. He'd rather just leave and call it a night. It was a good night. He doesn't want to spoil an otherwise magical memory. With ballet dancers all around him, he almost feels like an ugly burden in their sacred wonderland. Hands in his pockets and head down, Liam tries to find his way out without asking for any assistance. But he opts for heading any way, no matter where it's leading. As long as it's isolated. He'll ask for help there.

But before Liam can do that he feels a poke in the center of his back. Can't help but give a jump. And when he turns around he has to turn his head up a little to see.

It's Harry again.

"Hey!" Liam laughs, his face going red. Harry is smiling down at him, now changed into a black coat, beanie, scarf and jeans. The dimples. Liam can't stop looking at the dimples. His whole face is radiating in his post-performance high, but that could just be the stage makeup he hasn't washed off. He becomes more beautiful with every second he spends looking at him with his round, brown eyes.

"Hi," Harry giggles, perhaps embarrassed he called for Liam's attention. But that's a far-fetched fantasy.

"Do you remember me?" Liam asks, hands switching to his hoodie pocket nervously.

And Harry nods with a smile, "Yeah! Do you mind if we step outside? It's very..." He wiggles his fingers around his head to express the stressful environment around them.

Liam is more than happy to find a quiet, private space. That has to mean something. He couldn't agree fast enough. "Yeah! Yeah, sure, mate."

That quiet space would be the backstage corridor about 5 feet wide. A place dancers tonight have left abandoned to instead meet with their parents and loved ones at the front lobby. Liam doesn't figure that, because he isn't thinking at all. It's so isolated that for a moment he fantasizes about something wildly sexy happening. Liam's judgement is clouded under the haze of his leftover infatuation, and the overall romantic mist that watching The Nutcracker has left him. He has to remember what being reasonable was like. Remember: they met _once_. One _year_ ago. That's where they are. Less than nothing, and standing in front of each other in a cold little corridor.

"Do you remember? We met like, that one time I think uh... Was it at a dance studio or something?" Liam tries to pretend he doesn't know every last detail. Tries to ignore the stomping of his heart, too. "I remember your face."

"Yeah, it was at a dance studio!" Harry's back is pressed against the wall as he keeps his hands behind his back. "That was like... a year ago." And he shrugs a little helplessly. "You know, I've wondered a few times. I asked myself, 'I wonder what happened to that guy...' I always thought I'd run into you again but... then I just forgot. But I saw your face and I said, oh that's him!"

Liam feels like he could do a backflip and jump off all the walls. He's standing in front of Harry, and talking in front of Harry. This is just a run in with a one-time stranger, as it is for Harry. But Liam is struggling to remember that— what he should be acting like. "Well I did come back to the studio a few times but you weren't there." And he feels like he's trying to prove himself to him.

"It's because I left I uh... I stopped using the studio because uh... I went back with my company. To rehearse with them." Harry doesn't think Liam knows the context but he does. Liam remembers. And he realizes that 1/2 of his fantasy was true. Harry did get the part of the prince in Swan Lake, and didn't have to use the rehearsal room at the university anymore. The difference is that they didn't get to exchange numbers. Or actually see each other a few more times before that. It still counts, he tells himself. Although he doesn't know as what.

Liam has to say something, but he doesn't know what. It has to be something flippant and superficial, he tells himself. It can't be deep. He doesn't want to go on about a failed friendship because it was never about that between them. But before he can think of something to say, Harry does for him. "What did you think of the show? Did you watch it?"

And Liam's eyes go wide as his lips curve into a smile. "Yes! It was brilliant."

Harry smiles bright about that. So big.

"I-I've never been to a ballet before. Never. It was amazing I just felt like, overwhelmed or, you know, like, hypnotized or something." Liam is rambling and he sounds so stupid, he thinks. But Harry is loving it, knowing the show he's put his soul into was a success. There isn't anything that could ever imply it wasn't. But still. For the amazing show Harry put on, he deserves to hear someone gush. "I mean the music and the dancing and the costumes— And I was quite up close, as well. I was right up near the stage and I could see everything. It was so pretty I just... honestly I don't have words. I mean you can tell just looking at me I'm not around uh... that sort of scene."

Harry laughs again as he shakes his head, and assures Liam, "You look fine." His voice is so deep it's surreal for Liam to keep hearing it outside of his head. In the narrow corridor it carries a faint echo. His hushed tone makes him sound like he should be voicing a creature off a kid's cartoon. A baby face like that has no business having such a bass-heavy voice. Deeper than Liam's. But that just makes him so special. Of course Liam's crazy about it.

"You were quite good as well. You were brilliant, mate."

"Thank you. Did you have a good time?"

"I had an amazing time," Liam says a little too slow and sincerely. "I mean it was just." He shakes his head, and his hands on either side. "Mind-blowing. Honestly. You were the prince right?"

Harry nods.

"Again."

And he smiles. "I tend to be," he admits.

Liam likes that. Frankly, he doesn't see him as anything else.

"I didn't expect to see you here— Or, there, actually. Backstage. That was really unexpected."

"I hope not in a bad way."

"No!" he assures him. "No, not at all."

And Liam takes the opportunity to be funny. "I was, actually, very much surprised to uh... to find that you're uh... your hair is short."

Harry laughs a really good laugh. Great laugh. Crinkly-eyed. He wasn't expecting that. "Oh!"

"It used to be so long."

"Yeah! You remember that huh... It's all gone." And he makes a playfully miserable face as he pats the back of his smooth head. Liam expects him to take off the beanie but he doesn't. And he has to ask.

"Why'd you cut it?" If he seems so sad to have it gone.

"Uh... " And he snorts. "Bad hair cut."

"It looks good. You look c— I-It looks cute."

Harry smiles. Not that he's ever stopped. "Thanks."

And they stay quiet. Liam wants to say it's awkward but it isn't. It feels like a door that isn't ready to be opened yet. Liam holds things back. And he can't help but think Harry is, too, standing there with his hands behind his back and a constant side-to-side sway as he looks at Liam with a smile that would be creepy if he wasn't so cute— and Liam didn't like him so much. Liam must be worse. He can't imagine how warm and soft his eyes must be. But he can't put into words the comforting air that comes with genuinely believing Harry doesn't find that strange, or creepy, or weird. He's acting weird in his own right. And it's so hard for Liam not to jump to conclusions. It's so hard for his dreams to _not_ go on claiming an early victory already— wide awake.

"It's been a year, hasn't it?" Harry cocks his head, and begins to nod. He already said that. "Yeah."

 _A year since what? What do you remember about me?_ Liam cuts that out. "I'm surprised you remember me. That was just. Once."

"Yeah. No I remember you." And he raises his eyebrows, gesturing a hand towards Liam. "I broke my phone, that's why." And drops it back down and behind his back. He looks like a child— that disposition. "You're tied into that... memory. It's like... a package deal. From that day."

Liam's head is full of Harry and it goes beyond memories. He's embarrassed of that and he doesn't want to acknowledge that past. It isn't fair for someone who just wants to chat and enjoy his company. Liam's doing a good job of popping bubbles and opening windows to clear his head of all the air and the convoluted plotlines. His words are short and quiet, and he doesn't ramble on for once. "Happy to be remembered." And he says it like he's actually just grateful. Nodding his head. "In any regard. It's better than being forgotten." That's unnecessary to say, and sounds deep and important.

But Harry goes along with it fine. "Yeah. That is true." And he notes, "You remembered me."

 _Jesus, did I ever..._ Liam can't help but laugh, and Harry joins him for whatever reason that may be. "Yeah, that's right. I did," he nods.

"Uh...Would you like my number?"

Liam catches his eyes going wide and brings them back down again with an awkwardly timed smile he's also trying to keep down. But he can't. It grows into an ugly grin as he starts to rub his swing his arms back and forth for a silent clap. "Sure." _Yes, yesss. Play it cool. Get in!_  He's getting better, despite his rapid heart making him chuckle again. And again. He must look a mess anyway. Especially in his unsightly attire.

"Cos I have to uh... get going. But I'd like for us to keep in touch." And Harry pulls out his phone. "Crazy coincidence, innit? Might as well. Uh... Give me your number, I'll give you a ring."

"My phone is broken." Feeling smug when he tells him, "It fell. The screen cracked."

Harry gives a honky laugh. "No way!"

"Coincidence."

"What a coincidence," he giggles. "Brilliant. I love it."

' _Ah lohwv it_.' That's some accent. And he talks so slow. "You from Birmingham?"

"Cheshire."

"Cheshire cat," Liam sings in a high voice. "Like Alice in Wonderland." He watches Harry step closer as he reaches his hand into his coat pocket. And Liam walks closer himself until they're standing inches apart. He looks around at the narrow corridor they're standing in again. _How **private**!!_ he celebrates in his head pathetically, and smiles again. "Where's that?"

"Just under Liverpool. Lots of dairy cows. Your hand, please."

Liam promptly sticks it out, and Harry grabs hold of it so the back of it faces up.

"Here we go." He's writing his number on the back of Liam's hand. And Liam laughs.

"What is that?! That's not even a pen!"

"Waterproof eyeliner," he giggles. "Don't tell Minami I stole it." His Japanese pronunciation is perfect. No 'Mee- _naw_ -mee'.

"Wow."

And Harry giggles on, his eyes coming to a tight squeeze shut for just a moment before he goes back to writing. _He's so fucking cute. He's so giggly. God, look at him._ Liam watches Harry bite his bottom lip, concentrating on remembering his number property. For his sake, he hopes Harry does. Because he'll never get an opportunity like this again. Not in a lifetime. This feels fated on a fiction novel scale. It doesn't make it easier— it; the fire engulfing Liam's world just below his floor. Somehow a demise is making him feel good. The racing of his heart, the somehow amazing nausea he feels in his stomach knowing he can't get over this, and he won't get over this, and he'll be losing his mind over this when he gets home and when he wakes up tomorrow. This is the rising action of Liam's inevitable optimism that ends in tragedy 3/4 times.

Tragedy is what you make of it. It's a matter of perspective. And all Liam sees is the bright pink tip of Harry's nose and the plump rosiness of his lips to match. It's like he's even more gorgeous than Liam remembered. More gorgeous than he made up in his mind. If this is what tragedy looks like he's ready to make bad decisions for the rest of his life. Liam can't really think. This is a real thing. Harry is a real thing. He's melting into jelly just focusing on that gloved hand holding his wrist in place while he scribbles on the skin. Liam looks down to see that there's a good amount of numbers jotted down.

"Done."

And he looks up to see that Harry is looking right back at him.

"Your eyes are green," he blurts quietly. _I'm so annoying. I'm so fucking creepy._ He's ready to apologize until Harry adds,

"And yours are very brown." And he smiles again. Eye contact with him so up close is too much for Liam to handle. Harry doesn't look real. That smile from such a close distance— _Oh my God._ "Sorry, what was your name again?"

"Liam. L-I-A-M."

"Like William."

Liam's eyes go wide.

"What?"

Liam is short for William. "Oh my God, I've never thought of that." And he starts to laugh.

Harry cracks a grin and feels clever. "What? Never?"

"First time in twenty-three fucking years. Bloody hell! William!" That's brilliant. Harry made him laugh, and he's laughing too. It gets better. It just gets better. "Wow."

"I'm Harry, by the way!"

"Yeah, I know."

"You do?"

 _Shit!_ "Uh... Yeah," he shrugs, stupidly, his face going red as he stammers. But Harry starts to laugh with him. And Liam couldn't be more grateful. He raises his eyebrows at him expectantly when he feels Harry's hand placed on his arm. And Harry points at him with the snap of his fingers.

"I'll see you soon."

Liam's eyes beam bright when they should be dying down from their sudden goodbye. "Yeah?"

And Harry nods. "Exit's down the way you came, by the way." He points to the door they came in through. "Keep left by the curtains and the little uh, the door that takes you to the theater is there."

"Alright, good."

And Harry smiles. Tells him, "It was nice seeing you. Take care, Liam." Like he's saying it for the first time all over again. Let this be the first time they meet. Let this be the beginning again as they say goodbye, as they wave to each other until they disappear from each others' sight.

And Liam decides right then and there, standing alone in that cold little corridor: He can't let anybody know. This'll be a secret. He'll keep this safe. He'll never let anybody come close to this again. Liam looks down at the back of his hand for the first time. The blockiest handwriting ever. He chuckles.

"Okay."

HARRY'S NUMBER =)  
(020) 8382 8900

"Okay."

HARRY'S NUMBER =)  
(020) 8382 8900

"Holy shit."

 

***

 

There's the _over_ sensitive, impulsive, insecure, unrealistic and reckless person that Liam has done a very good job at making people believe he got rid of. Of course, the human mind doesn't work that way. Liam has just done a good job of hiding himself away to let a more ideal person come to light. The one that says, 'Let me really think this through before assuming everyone hates me and going on to whine about it'. He knows better more often times than not. But in between being selfless and caring and loyal, Liam is also jumping into risks without a life vest because in two minutes he decided he'd be fine. One minute later and then he's sure he's going to die. He doesn't think he'd mind so much if people weren't always dangling the portfolio of past failures over his head to guilt him into improving. He doesn't know when people got so rude about helping him. That doesn't make Liam a better person, it makes him a more secretive one. A deceitful one. And Liam hates lying.

He's getting ready to sit down on his dining table to read through his notebook before he catches sight of the blinking light of his phone, indicating a voicemail sits unheard. He goes over to it and makes it so he can hear it play throughout the room like if it were a 90's movie and he's getting a life-changing message.

 _"You have two new messages,"_ the telephone announces.

Probably his mother worriedly asking why he hasn't picked up the phone.

_"Hey, Liam. It's Niall. Uh... Don't know why you're not picking up your other phone but. I'm calling here. Pick up. Anyway, I called up my cousin. Jack. Forgot to tell you. Uh... Yeah, he says the offer is still up. And that uh... he'd like to talk to you about the job. If you want. You have to do it tonight because he'll be out of town for a week so... Yeah. His number is 353-889-2833. Sooo give him a call! Do it! Call me."_

Liam looks at the clock. 11:20pm "Ireland, huh..." he whispers to himself. He thinks about it. _Am I gonna get an accent after a while?_ That depends on how long he plans on staying. He wonders if he's up for the job of sound technician. The pay is good enough that the job probably calls for significant expertise. Messing around with the sound equipment at school and at his local church are a far cry from professional. But "messing around" could just be him putting it lightly. If the guy was willing to hire his own cousin with limited talent in music, then Liam can't be that ill-fit for the job. "Money..." He'd like that. He figures.

_“Hello, Dr. James? It’s Catherine, I’m Elvis Wilkins’s mother. Um... I tried reaching you on your other number. I tried to leave several messages but you didn't seem to be picking up."_

Liam turns his head back to his telephone with a furrowed brow. He didn't expect to hear Catherine's voice at all. A falter comes before he turns back around to the packet of pens and papers he bought on the way home. Set on the dining table he rips open the top, pulling out the colorful 6-pack ensemble.

_"We had an appointment earlier today. I um… I’m afraid we left without scheduling our next appointment for Elvis. It seems he..." And she sighs, "would really like to see you again."_

Liam drops the pens and clicks his tongue, confused and annoyed at the plot twist. He looks down at his notebook. Frowning.

_"He insists on seeing you again. And that would be the first time he's been open to seeing a therapist so. I'm not left with much choice. I do want what's best for him. I'm not sure that you are. But I would like it if you would contact me so we could... see if we could work out something for Elvis. For his sake."_

"For his sake," Liam repeats in a mumble. Star Wars composition notebook.

_"Please call me back as soon as you can. Thank you."_

Liam would have to open practice again before doing that. But he already told Niall he'd be getting his life together. If he doesn't, he'll be disappointing everyone all over again. He has no money, he has no future, and he has to find a different road. He's gotten himself into enough things. He needs to start digging his way out if he wants food on the table and a roof over his head.

Deep, deep down, Liam isn't looking to head down a path of bad choices. He's waiting for one to whisk him away first so he can follow— take some of the blame off his shoulders. One big fuck up to shake up his whole world and make it worth disappointing everyone. And the notion is just a little bit maddening, and the desire for something like that is awful. Waiting for signs and second guessing himself; feeding into fantasy; turning his back on logic because it's thrilling after denying it for so long. He's restless all of a sudden and he doesn't have the patience to subdue it _all over again_. But he has a master's in psychology— this isn't supposed to happen. He should stop it. He has to.

Right now he's cracked a perfectly plastered part of himself, and he's looking right through to the inside. And rather than proving hollow, it reveals a forlorn riddle of insecurity and infatuation.

To Liam's not-so-great surprise, he has discovered that right beside his heart is a cobweb-ridden music box that hasn't played music in over a year. Even though it's open. Liam can't even remember the tune. All he has to do is twist the key. But why would he do a thing like that? There's a reason he left the place abandoned in the first place. But then, there's a reason he didn't close the box, either. He twists the little key. And holds his breath for the revelation of the piece that holds every part of him together. The direction, the meaning, the secret. And it's there.

A music box rendition of Swan Lake playing as the Odette dances in circles around the lake that keeps her prisoner. And that's it. The green light that christens him to a romantic demise.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos and let me know what you think in the comments!


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